


Said the Spider to the Spider

by ncruuk



Series: Behind the Beret - being Bernie [9]
Category: Holby City
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncruuk/pseuds/ncruuk
Summary: "Come into my Parlour," said the Spider to the Fly...It hadn't occurred to the Spider that the Fly might have a friend.Isaac Mayfield was a very talented catcher of flies, with Dom Copeland being his latest prey.In her time in the Army, Major Wolfe had met more than her fair share of confident predators whose very success depended on keeping others under their spell.  She too was a talented catcher...but not of flies.  She went for the spiders who caught the wrong flies.Inspired by the s19 e16 'Daylight' Bernie scenes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you like Isaac, please move on to something else.

"What am I looking at?"

 

"You tell me."

 

It was unusual for Henrik Hanssen to be uneasy about a lengthening silence but, sitting at his desk, patient file open in front of him he was distinctly uncomfortable as he felt the seconds tick by and whatever it was Ms Wolfe wanted him to see failed to come into focus for him.  

 

It was testament to the regard that he had for her abilities and judgement of both surgery and surgeons that he continued to study the file and take her at her word, rather than dismiss this as a 'game' and request she make her point.

 

"Surgical admission on Keller from..." he looked up at the date on the top of the file, "January 2016."  That was not what he was expecting, prompting him to look down at the bottom to review who had been the responsible surgeon.  "One of Dr Copeland's earlier customers."  He looked up at her, taking in the completely relaxed posture, arms resting casually on the arms of the chair, a slight smile that was almost a smirk in her expression that did little to dilute the intensity or focus of her gaze.  She was, he realised suddenly, the perfect personification of a primed, locked and loaded artillery weapon sat poised ready to fire in an instant, be that instant now or hours away.

 

"I see you are acquainted with our patient records archive..." The dry barb was instinctive, what he'd say without thinking to reset the silence, to settle himself and to unsettle others but he knew as soon as he'd spoken that it was a thrust so weak it required no reaction on her part to parry, the words dying in the space between them.  He was, as he returned his attention to the file with a renewed focus, suddenly grateful she'd not responded or reacted, recognising his own embarrassment at his words was point enough.

 

Seconds ticked into minutes before he looked up again, not surprised to see her seemingly unmoved, that same mix of total ease and taut alertness still settled around her like a comic book superhero's cape.  He was suddenly reminded of something an early mentor had said to him which, in translation he'd shared himself over the years to new and aspiring surgeons: good surgeons are fast but great surgeons have time.  Bernie Wolfe was more than a good surgeon: she was a great surgeon, and, more immediately, she was a great surgeon with seemingly limitless time to wait for him to see her point.

 

"I see a young man admitted with pain and no doubt some social distress that was alleviated by a straightforward surgical procedure executed competently by Dr Copeland with minimal intervention by Mr Levy.  An admirable achievement considering his relative inexperience at that point."

 

"Indeed.” Her expression remained unreadable to him as she moved her head a fraction, inviting him to look at what she’d placed with appropriate ceremony and precision exactly where he liked to place files to read, neatly in the centre of the space in front of him, framed by his stationery and small tokens of his life thus far.  “Have a look at the next file please."  It wasn't often that Henrik followed orders from anyone, nevermind his staff but like an obedient junior officer, he did as she instructed.

 

"This is..." He doubled checked the date at top of the page, and the doctor's name at the bottom.  "From last week."

 

"Yes."  Bernie's expression shifted slightly - how exactly he was unable to say but the effect was significant as somehow, he knew that she was pleased with his progress, that he was on his way to forming the right conclusion.

 

"The same procedure, similar patient..." He looked back at the file, scrutinising the patient history in case there was some unseen clue that might have been missed, but there wasn't.  "What was Dr Copeland's explanation for this patient's far less comfortable sojourn on Keller?"

 

"I don't know."  Bernie knew she was playing with fire at the end of a long piece of rope, knew that he'd likely snap at any moment, his tolerance for 'show not tell' running out before she'd finished her point but instinct told her, in the same way she knew which bleeds to pack and which bleeds to stitch, that she still had time.

 

"You were on Keller last week?"

 

"Yes."  Again, he searched her posture, scrutinised her body language for any hint of discomfort or unease but found none.  That was not the behaviour of a guilty or complicit person...it was, he concluded with a jolt of surprise and intrigue, the behaviour of a teacher waiting for the student to finish.  Smiling tightly, acknowledging to her that he understood and was prepared to continue this 'lesson' of hers, he looked back to the files, this time comparing them side by side, searching for what he hadn't yet seen, hadn't yet...

 

"I see."  He looked at her, troubled by what he'd found himself concluding.  "Most unfortunate."

 

"Unfortunate for whom?"  The challenge was clear in Bernie's voice, the original framing of her request loud in his memory 'you tell me'.  This was a problem which, in being solved, required sides to be taken and loyalties shown, starting with his...to her.

 

"Not Dr Copeland."

 

It was ridiculous.  

 

He was an adult male, well respected in his field with no recreational or social interest in this woman, just as he presumed with a high degree of confidence that she held the same views and yet there it was, that bubble of pride, that suffusion of warmth within him when her face transformed into a conspiratorial grin as she leaned forwards, suddenly taut with barely restrained energy, ready to burst into action.  

 

He was wanting to impress her...

 

_ “What am I looking at?” _

 

_ “You tell me.” _

 

He felt himself smile ever so slightly as she waited for him to be ready for her to continue.  

 

She’d set him a challenge.

 

He’d passed.

 

“I hoped you’d say that.”

 

But he was Henrik Hanssen: just passing wasn’t enough.  He wanted to pass with flying colours.

 

“You have a solution?”

 

“It would mean I had to cover Keller…”

 

“I hoped you’d say that.”  He used her words deliberately, pleased again to see her expression evolve once more as the energy diffused and the tension faded as she sat back in the chair, fully relaxed, totally still and calm, her smile confident.  

 

It was a confidence devoid of bravado - this was no front or bluff: it was the smile of a teacher whose pupil had just passed the test...with flying colours…. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

 

“Is it me, or is this weird?”

 

“It’s you,” replied Essie smartly, enjoying the opportunity to be able to have a light moment with Raf as he sat down next to her at the nurse’s station on Keller, “and this is Keller, something’s always weird.”

 

“Thought so…” Leaning back in his chair, Raf lapsed into a thoughtful silence as he took a moment to take in the ward before him.  

 

On first glance it looked like it should do and had done every day that he’d been working on it - the beds were full, the scrubs were that strange not quite red and not quite purple colour he didn’t know the name of, the staff moved calmly but efficiently between the patients completing obs checks, providing reassurance, explaining procedures.  But now he was looking, looking for longer and with more care, he realised what else he was seeing…  “Are we being tested?”

 

“Hmm?”  Essie, thinking he’d finished talking to her, had returned her focus to the patient file she’d been updating and took a moment to realise what he was talking about.  “Tested?  Who, the hospital?”  She looked from Raf to the ward, her eyes scanning each patient space for the Auditor or Inspector that she’d not previously noticed, only to see no one she didn’t know.  “I hadn’t heard we’d an inspection…” Putting her pen down, her interest in her file momentarily abandoned, she gave Raf her full attention.

 

“I don’t mean test like that…” Raf leaned forwards in his chair and pushed himself nearer to the desk, simultaneously making it easier for him to talk to Essie quietly and also snap into an ‘I’m working, honest’ position should a consultant suddenly loom.  “I meant us, individuals.  By her.”  He jerked his head in the direction of the one person whose right to wear surgical scrubs was as great if not greater than anyone else’s on the ward today but who was stood, perfectly calmly, just beyond the end of a bed, dressed entirely in black: there to help if needed, observing while she wasn’t.

 

“Ms Wolfe?”  Essie frowned in confusion at Raf, wondering why he was so concerned by her sudden appearance on Keller for a few shifts, shifts during which Ric and Sacha would take the opportunity to ‘experience AAU’ and ‘refresh their trauma skills’ while she ‘held the fort’ for them.  It had seemed, to Essie anyway, like a good idea and certainly Keller hadn’t suffered during the shifts Ms Wolfe had been at the helm…  “I thought you liked her?”  

 

“I do…” Raf sighed heavily in his frustration at not making himself clear.  “It’s just this isn’t her…”

 

“General Surgery?”  Anyone else and Raf would be on the receiving end of a lecture about the importance of General Surgery and the reminder that trauma and everything being ‘urgent’ and ‘acute’ was not the only way to help people, but Essie wasn’t that person and was prepared to give him a chance to explain himself before she accused him of being that trauma adrenalin junkie which she now knew he wasn’t.

 

“No!  Patient...”  He wasn’t sure if he was making any sense, but was past the point of really caring now he’d finally worked out what was gnawing at him.  “She’s watching and waiting not doing…”

 

“She’s been in theatre…” Essie sort of saw what he was getting at, but still didn’t quite get what he was concerned about - Ms Wolfe wasn’t the first consultant to decide to let the Registrars and Juniors take the lead on cases and remain in the background, only stepping in when it was necessary.

 

“But not leading...”  Raf saw from Essie’s look that she wasn’t understanding him.  “Och, forget it…” he said suddenly, his Scottish accent thickening as it often did when he was frustrated at something, this time himself.  “Just me…”

 

“If you say so,” agreed Essie, recognising that there was nothing more to say and preparing to return to her patient file, but not without first looking down the ward to where, just a couple of feet away from Mr Mayfield and Dr Copeland, stood Ms Wolfe quietly listening and watching as they took Mrs Cardwain through her pre-op examination.  Maybe Raf was right...maybe there was something weird going on...but what?

 

* * *

 

 

“...you’re in excellent hands Mrs Cardwain.”

 

“Thank you…” Looking uncertainly between Isaac and Dom, she settled for smiling her thanks at the younger man who returned the smile as he closed the folder that contained all her notes and put it back in the holder at the end of the bed.

 

As Dom turned away from the rather sweet old lady who had just been steamrolled by Isaac into agreeing to the new technique, he was surprised to see Ms Wolfe, not having noticed that she’d been back on the ward, having last seen her heading into the Consultant’s office.  It seemed, judging from how Isaac’s shoulders were set that he’d not known either.

 

“Ms Wolfe…” 

 

Dom squinted in puzzlement at how Isaac now stood, wondering whether he was deliberately mimicking the ‘at ease’ stance of a soldier before deciding that, this being Isaac, it was deliberate.  

 

“Mr Mayfield.”  Bernie took in his stance, noticing what he was trying to do and just about managing to conceal her amusement as she mentally ticked off the errors and mistakes he’d made, even allowing for him wearing scrubs and trainers.

 

“Can I help you with something Ms Wolfe?”  Superficially, Isaac sounded perfectly respectful and polite, but there was an air about him that, in the club when Dom had first met him that was sexy confidence, but here, on the ward, directed at the most-definitely-immune-to-his-charms Ms Wolfe, it felt nasty and foolish.  For a split second, Dom thought he should probably try and warn his boyfriend that he was stupid to try and take her on, but he was too far away to nudge Isaac without her noticing, so he stayed where he was and tried not to attract her attention.

 

“You already have Mr Mayfield.”  Bernie held out her hand, signalling that she’d like to see his notes on Mrs Cardwain.  “May I see her notes?”  Although Bernie phrased it as a question, it was clearly framed as a request as far as Dom was concerned.  Knowing that Isaac had no notes, that all the notes were either in the patient file and or Dom’s own notes, Dom turned back to retrieve Mrs Cardwain’s file, missing the further stiffening of his boyfriend’s spine and the setting of his jaw as he tried to contain his frustration at her interest.

 

“What is it that interests you Ms Wolfe?”  In an attempt to unset his jaw, Isaac tried for light humour.  “What can there be about a laparoscopic sigmoid colectomy that the prodigal consultant general surgeon doesn’t already know?”

 

“That, Mr Mayfield, is why I would like to see your notes on Mrs Cardwain.”  Bernie was aware of Dom producing the patient file and opening his own notes, clearly about to pass them to Isaac.  “Thank you Dr Copeland, but I’ve familiarised myself with Mrs Cardwain’s scans and history.”  She held up her tablet to confirm that she’d done so, saving him from passing the file across to her.  “And I’m sure your notes are excellent, but I’d like to see Mr Mayfield’s, to understand his decision.”

 

“To operate laparoscopically?  I’d have thought that was obvious…” The scorn in Isaac’s voice was hard to miss.  However, it seemed that to Isaac at least, Bernie’s determination to see his notes had been missed.

 

“A point that will no doubt come through clearly in your notes.”  Bernie watched him with interest, waiting to see what microscopic movement would give him away next.

 

“Dr Copeland has the notes.”  Cornered, with no way out of the immediate situation, Isaac decided to shift her sudden obsession with this case onto the junior doctor.

 

“I see.”  Bernie glanced at Dom, concerned but not surprised when she saw the flash of alarm in his eyes before he squashed it down deep inside him somewhere and instead stepped forwards, so he was side by side with the man who should be professionally supporting him, nevermind personally valuing him given their relationship yet instead, in Bernie’s view, was controlling and undermining him in a singularly concerning way.  “Then Dr Copeland is leading the surgery under your support and guidance?” 

 

As she asked the question, she accepted Dom’s notes with a brief smile, wanting to tell him to relax, to remember all the operations he’d done before Isaac, be they with her or Sacha or any of the other consultants and registrars in this hospital...all those patients whose lives had been transformed by his skill and dedication, however unconventionally he might have at times displayed it.  But this was not the moment: this was the moment where she had to take the risk of him being bruised and wounded one final time in order to rescue him, a risk that she was only taking because she had no intention of continuing to permit this manipulator to inflict pain on Dom.  

 

“No, I will be leading the surgery.”  Isaac’s confidence was back, her question making him believe that she’d not actually heard their pre-op review with Mrs Cardwain.  “As I’ve just discussed it with her.  She’s consented.”

 

“And Dr Copeland?”

 

“Is assisting.”  Again, Isaac’s answer was quick and confident, accompanied by a sidelong glance towards Dom that could have said ‘it’s a joy to work together’ but actually said ‘be grateful to me’.

 

“Not leading this one Dr Copeland?”  Bernie could see from his notes that he’d prepped on that basis, already knew from all the scans and tests over the last four days necessary in order to be in a position to operate on Mrs Cardwain today after resolving the infections and complications had all been requested on the presumption that Dom was in the lead.

 

“No.”  Dom hated how he sounded small and shy as he answered her question, not making eye contact with her for any longer than absolutely necessary...hated that he felt that way until he saw Isaac’s proud smile at him from the corner of his eye.  “Not today.”

 

“I see.”  Closing the notes, Bernie handed them back to Isaac who looked briefly affronted that he had to carry them before remembering who she was and how recently she’d had him stood on very thin ice.  The feeling of triumph when he’d twisted away from her trap before he thought she’d even noticed catching him out was making him buzz with energy.  

  
“Thank you gentlemen...”  She waited while Isaac finally realised she expected him to accept the notes and keep them, not pass them on to Dom.  “Perhaps I’ll look in on you in theatre…” She acknowledged Raf’s call for her assistance with another patient and prepared to head towards him, but not before looking at Isaac with a thoughtful expression on her face.  “...I’m sure it will be highly informative...”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a medic, merely someone who googles and hopes to create something sufficiently plausible for the purposes of story-telling.
> 
> If I've made any (hideous) errors please let me know....
> 
> Enjoy....

“Would you like to join me in theatre?” asked Raf when, patient assessment complete, he and Bernie were stood a short distance from the patient, checking and double checking the notes they’d individually made.  It had been a strange one to sort out, with the final solution to Mr Barker’s difficulties appearing to be a combination of three relatively straightforward procedures, although Raf could see now why he’d initially been ‘seduced’ into thinking a larger, more complex single procedure might have been the solution.  Although he was reasonably confident that Bernie wouldn’t want to be in theatre for the operation, he’d always enjoyed operating with her on AAU and given her help, it seemed extremely rude to not make the offer.

 

“I’d love to…” Bernie looked up from her tablet and smiled warmly at him, recalling the surgical confidence he’d continued to acquire in the relatively short time she’d known him down on AAU.  It would have been an unexpected perk of this temporary and necessary posting to Keller to be able to see his latest strides of progress.  “...but I can’t.”  The look of regret on her face was completely genuine and included a hint of distaste at the thought of what she would be doing instead.  “What time’s your theatre slot?”

 

“3...I’d blocked the schedule for six hours….” When yesterday Mr Barker’s temperature had dropped, Raf had made it his priority to find a suitable theatre slot for his intended operation.  Although there was a slight feeling of disappointment that he’d not have the opportunity, today at least, to have a go at that particular operation, he was incredibly relieved that with Ms Wolfe’s assistance he would instead be doing three small laparoscopic procedures which would not only be less arduous surgically, but would offer a far more straightforward and shorter recovery period for Mr Barker and a better quality of life afterwards too.  It did however, mean he was left with a positive embarrassment of theatre time, since he probably would need no more than a couple of hours now.

 

“Could you manage with, say…” Bernie turned and glanced across the ward, trying to effect an air of casual indifference to her question. “...Dr Copeland assisting?”

 

“Dr Copeland?”  Raf’s eyes widened at her suggestion, not because he didn’t like the idea but because he’d been given the distinct impression that, in Isaac’s mind at least, Dom Copeland was ‘his’.

 

“Problem?”  

 

“Aye! I mean of course Dr Copeland can assist.”  Raf stumbled through his momentary tongue-tied tangle and emerged the other side with relief.  “Actually….” Now Raf thought about it some more, there was no reason why he couldn’t be in the lead, for some of it at least.  And he’d already been introduced to Mr Barker two days ago when he’d first been admitted to Keller.  “...I’d be happy for him to take the lead, for the first part at least…” Although Raf still wasn’t that familiar with what Dom’s current surgical skill was, he was reasonably confident that the younger doctor should be able to manage to do a straightforward hernia repair (the first of Mr Barker’s difficulties) even if he’d never done it in the same operation as a Cholecystectomy and Nissen Fundoplication, but then that was Bernie’s trauma background coming through to the fore: if you regularly tackled major multi-organ operations, three ‘routine’ keyhole procedures at various points along the digestive tract was just efficient.  

 

“I hoped you’d say that…” agreed Bernie, her eyes bright with the sort of light that Raf had come to associate with the moment when, stood over a newly presented critical patient, they’d managed to assimilate enough data to provide enough information for Bernie to declare that yes, they had a plan and it was time to crack on.

 

“Should I tell Dr Copeland?” If Raf sounded ever so slightly apprehensive about intervening with his fellow registrar’s seemingly ‘exclusive’ junior, Bernie was politic enough to not mention it.

 

“I’ll do that,” she volunteered easily, her eyes tracking Isaac and Dom as they headed, or rather Isaac strode and Dom was towed by some invisible elastic, towards the office Isaac retreated to.  “Just let him out by 4.30?  He’s assisting Mr Mayfield with Mrs Cardwain and their theatre slot is 5.”

 

“Assisting?”  Raf’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment - that’s not what he’d expected to be the case after the hard work he’d seen Dom put in since she’d been admitted.  “But that’s…”

 

“My concern Mr di Lucca.”  There was a finality in her voice that he knew not to push.

 

“Of course Ms Wolfe…” As he nodded that he would comply with her clear preference that he leave well alone, even if he didn’t understand it, he saw that sparkle return to her eye, the one that he’d seen appear everytime the red phone rang…  “I’ll not mention it, and will make sure he’s available for Mr Mayfield at 4.30.”  ...It was the spark of a Wolfe on a mission, a mission she wasn’t prepared to fail at, a mission in which the ‘enemy’ stood no chance.

 

“Thanks Raf.  I’ll get Dr Copeland to come find you...” She thought for a moment about what she wanted to do next.  “Why don’t you prep in my office?  I’ve got to go see someone…”

 

“Aye, thank you Ms Wolfe.”  There really, decided Raf as he watched her turn and set off up the Ward stopping to assist the couple of nurses that wanted her to review things on the way, was no one quite like her...he was just very relieved that she seemed to be on his side...and Dr Copeland’s.

* * *

  
  


“And where is Dr Copeland now?”

 

“In theatre with Mr di Lucca.”  Bernie relaxed back into her chair and met Hanssen’s steady gaze with an equally steady gaze of her own.  “But Mr di Lucca is aware that Mr Mayfield has a…” she took a moment to make sure that Henrik understood her next word choice was extremely careful and entirely deliberate, “...prior claim on Dr Copeland that I would like to see honoured.”

 

“And that is assisting Mr Mayfield with Mrs Cardwain?”  Henrik looked down at the set of notes she’d put together for him yesterday.

 

“Yes.”  Bernie cleared her throat and smiled with the the air of someone about to share the big secret with their fellow trusted conspirator.  “However I’m not entirely sure that Mr Mayfield will be showing much in the way of leadership.”

 

“Indeed.”  Henrik turned the page to look at all the work that Dr Copeland had put in on Mrs Cardwain before Mr Mayfield had decided to insert himself into the case as an active participant.  “This is the same pattern that we’ve seen several times previously with Mr Mayfield, isn’t it?”

 

Rather than answer his question, Bernie met his own questioning expression with a pointedly raised eyebrow of her own.

 

“That is, that Mr Mayfield has been enable to get away with for the majority of his time here at Holby General without any challenge.”  He was grateful that she permitted him that subtle restatement - they’d already had the discussion in which she’d firmly made her point about what she thought about the level of supervision and apparent reluctance on the part of her fellow consultants to actually address what was singularly unacceptable behaviour by a registrar.  

 

A less magnanimous consultant might have pushed or laboured the point further until they’d been singled out for praise and plaudits for picking up the issue that their peers had dropped but, in line with her reputation from both the Army and her time in Holby, he’d been unsurprised when she’d been oblivious to that.  Her only concern had been that by failing to adequately supervise and observe Isaac Mayfield, Dominic Copeland was a talented junior surgeon in danger of going off the rails.  For one so recently introduced to the civilian world of the NHS, she’d proven herself to be particularly astute in identifying all the possible pitfalls they’d stumbled through, from the death of his flatmate, best friend and fellow junior doctor, to the whole being in a relationship with a superior.  

 

“But not this time.”  There was a confident finality to her statement: this was the day they did their duty by Dr Copeland and his predecessors when it came to Isaac Mayfield.  Now he understood what sort of snake had been allowed to insinuate itself into his proverbial nest, Hanssen had no intention of permitting Mr Mayfield the opportunity to continue his surgical career at Holby.  Not, he suspected, that there would be much left of him by the time Ms Wolfe had finished with him.

 

“You will be in theatre?”  As much as he might want to focus on his duty to Dr Copeland and his personal desire to see the young man’s confidence restored as quickly as possible, Hanssen knew he could not forget his broader duty to the patients in the hospital generally and Mrs Cardwain specifically.

 

“Yes.  At Mr Mayfield’s invitation no less.”  Bernie allowed herself a second to share a smirking, almost sly grin with him before she quickly sobered.  “Mayfield has appointed himself lead for the operation but it’s Dom Copeland who’s done all the prep and work.  Based on how Mayfield’s covered himself in the past, he was planning on ‘helping’ Dom ‘learn’ the procedure by letting him rehearse the operation plan with him before they head to theatre.”

 

“Which is how Mr Mayfield would then know how to proceed?” Hanssen already knew this was the case, having been taken through what the registrar’s strategy appeared to be by Bernie last week and then double checked it for himself by looking through various patient files he’d selected at random.  “Because he’s coached Dr Copeland into coaching him?”

 

“Correct.  Very clever, in a rather idle and unpleasant way.”  Bernie shifted in her chair, instinctively squaring her posture into a position that positively screamed ‘military’.  “Not exactly honourable though.”

 

“Indeed.”  Hanssen just about managed to contain his slight amusement at what, on the face of it sounded like a fairly mild criticism but he knew, from Major Wolfe it was about the greatest accusation she could level short of actual incompetence.  “But with Dr Copeland in theatre with Mr di Lucca he is denied his coaching session…”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I see.”  He glanced to his diary, open on the computer screen next to him.  “Which theatre is Mrs Cardwain’s operation in?”

 

“Three G.  Will you observe?”

 

“From the gallery.  You will scrub in?”

 

“Yes.”  They shared a look that covered everything that hadn’t been said, that didn’t need to be said: that Isaac Mayfield had been isolated, that Dom Copeland had been protected, that Mrs Cardwain’s health and well-being was being prioritised….

 

“And afterwards?  My office or yours?”

  
“Yours I think…” Bernie looked around, noting the number of chairs and their general proximity to the more administrative functions of the hospital compared to the consultant’s office on Keller.  “Best to take every tactical advantage we have at our disposal, don’t you think?”  She paused for a moment before, as she stood to go and make sure she had everything in order before she went off to theatre, she wondered, “...or is that the last job talking?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far....


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unsurprisingly I've not suddenly become a medic since I wrote the last chapter - I'm still someone who googles and tries to hopefully create a believable 'set' for the characters...but if I've made some (horrific) errors with the medicine please do let me know!
> 
> Thanks to all who are reading and enjoying this - I hope you continue to enjoy...

“What time do you call this?”

 

“The perfect time to observe you showing me something I don’t know about a laparoscopic sigmoid colectomy Mr Mayfield,” observed Bernie, her voice clear despite her surgical mask covering her mouth and nose.  As she walked across the theatre, she automatically took in all the various details about Mrs Cardwain’s situation that she could learn from the monitors, screens and finally, as she walked around the end of the bed, the patient herself.  “Starting perhaps with how you propose to complete the procedure without actually making an incision.”  She looked up at him with clear, steady eyes that gave away nothing and waited to see what he was going to say for himself.

 

“I was waiting for Dr Copeland, who is late.”  

 

It was clear that Isaac was agitated and his jaw was firmly clenched with what Bernie had to assume was fury, even though like her, he was wearing a surgical mask, his held extra firmly in place with his glasses. Although she never looked away from his glare, she was aware that this unexpected display of temper was unsettling some of the theatre team who were already a little bit off-balance from the delay anyway.  Bernie wasn’t sure if this was deliberate, another of his ‘games’ and attempt to throw presumably her off her stride but instead, it was a fit of temper that only served to ensure she kept her already calm and steady voice and gaze absolutely level, with not a hint of recognition that his heartrate was even remotely elevated.

 

“Dr Copeland is in theatre with Mr di Lucca.”  Bernie didn’t need to look at the theatre clock to know it was 4.21.  Based on how they’d been doing when she’d donned a gown and gloves and stuck her head into the theatre 22 minutes ago, she knew that Dom would be scrubbing in precisely at 4.30 as they’d been on schedule with Mr Barker’s operation.  Although she knew that he’d ‘not let Isaac down’ as he saw it, even when it was to the detriment of his own career and training, she still held onto a small spark of hope that Dom might stay with Raf and complete Mr Barker’s whole operation - she’d expressly given her consent to Raf’s request that Dom be given the option of continuing to be involved with Mr Barker’s surgery past their previously agreed deadline of the conclusion of the first procedure.  “Did you not get my message?”  

 

There was a guileless quality to her voice that almost saw the Theatre Sister give herself hiccups: she knew that Ms Wolfe had made absolutely certain that Mr Mayfield would get her message by stapling it to the paper his sandwich had been wrapped - evidently, she’d attempted to inform him in person but he’d been elsewhere.  While he’d not seen either the funny side or the sense behind her actions, the theatre staff had been very impressed with her approach - if he denied seeing her message, he’d be denying eating anything before operating, something that would almost certainly incur righteous wrath.  He therefore had no choice but to be truthful.

 

“It was hard to miss.”  

 

This time, there was no mistaking either his anger or who he was directing it at. The Sister’s hiccups stopped in an instant.

 

“Then what’s the problem?”  Again, the contrast between Consultant and Registrar could not be more extreme - as Isaac became visibly tenser and more enraged, Bernie appeared to become even more relaxed: had she not been instinctively holding her scrubbed and gloved hands in front of her so they remained surgery ready, Bernie might have been mistaken for someone who’d just stopped by to make small talk.

 

“He’s late.  It’s delaying the operation.”

 

“I don’t follow.” Bernie did, finally, look away from him but not, as Isaac hoped, because she’d been ‘broken’ by his glare but because she was conscious that she’d now been in theatre for two minutes and Mrs Cardwain’s abdomen was still waiting for the first incision.  It only took Bernie a matter of seconds to take in the rest of theatre, a single glance confirming to her that their patient was comfortably albeit extremely expensively, ‘asleep’ and stable with the anaesthetist happy with the patient’s status even if rather bored and confused by the general lack of, well, surgery.  “Which part of my note was unclear?”  

 

She still spoke with a light, calm almost curious tone of voice that was deceptive - she sounded like she was keen to learn how she’d been ambiguous, like she was prepared to take instruction on how she could do better next time.  Except, realised the Sister, catching sight of what looked suspiciously like Mr Hanssen’s shadow appearing in the Observation Room, there was going to be no next time for Mr Mayfield…

  


Isaac had set enough traps in his time for others to fall into that he should have paid more attention, should have seen the signs and at least made some attempt to either stumble past the immediate danger or march right into the middle of the trap with his head held high and his eyes wide open.  

 

The spider, in order to catch a fly, must understand what attracts a fly in the first place, but that is not enough.

 

In order to be a _successful_ catcher of flies, the spider must know when and where to spin their web.  

 

A confident spider spins their web without due consideration and thought, their self-belief making anything seem possible.

A greedy spider spins their web quickly, not caring what they catch or disturb on the way.

A cruel spider spins their web with traps and surprises, keen for vicarious thrills during prolonged and protracted victory.

 

Isaac had a long history of spinning beautiful, intricate webs that caught some truly glorious flies….webs that were so intricate that few ever saw the web, even after the fly had been caught, used and the tawdry shreds of the remains discarded.  He had been confident, greedy, and cruel.  He’d spun his web to catch his fly without thought for anyone but himself and for months he’d succeeded, as, fly caught, he continued to toy with it.

 

The spider though, is not immune from threat.  It too can be caught in webs, webs that hide in plain sight, visible to anyone who chooses to look.  These webs are highly selective, spun with great skill and precision, constructed with purpose and care, intended for a single, specific target.  

 

An arrogant spider forgets they too can be caught.

 

Isaac Mayfield, stood in operating theatre Three G, Mrs Cardwain’s laparoscopic sigmoid colectomy not yet started, looked into the eyes of Bernie Wolfe and saw in her steady gaze that for all his confidence, greed and cruel skill at twisting and turning a situation to his own advantage, he’d walked into a web, a web spun by a spider whose only interest in flies was their survival…

 

“Mr Mayfield?”  Bernie prompted him to answer her question, knowing that something had changed in him, that perhaps he was beginning to see that this was not going to go quite like he’d planned.  Experience however told her to not be triumphant too soon - he was tangled but not yet caught completely.  “Which part of my note was unclear?”

 

“I…” He cleared his throat, feeling strangled by his scrubs and surgical gown despite knowing that it was impossible.  He could see no way out of this one, his only option was to push on and dig himself deeper in the hope that there would be an escape in time.  “I hadn’t appreciated you meant Dr Copeland would not be in theatre for the start of the operation.”

 

“No?”  

 

Bernie saw the clock in the corner of her eye tick on to 4.25 - time was slowing for her but not doubt sprinting for Isaac.  She saw him also notice the time - he was probably realising he had five minutes until he was able to save himself by crushing Dom.  She, on the other hand, had 5 minutes to finish him...which was more than enough time.  

 

“I did say Dr Copeland would be in theatre for the start of the surgical procedure…” Bernie was sure that, if he hadn’t been wearing his mask, she’d have seen some colour in his cheeks, knowing her observation had struck a small nerve but knowing that what she was about to say would cut deeper.  “Which, if you had been capable of prepping your patient for the first incision to gain access to the peritoneum without assistance, you would have been just completing that incision when I arrived in theatre.  Then…” She gave him no chance to cut across her.  “...after you had checked your patient’s status and the ‘scope was working, you would be in a position to complete your preparations and commence the _surgical procedure_.  Your patient came in to Theatre at 4.17.  For you to be in a position where Dr Copeland’s assistance was required before 4.30 would, at a conservative estimate, suggest you were required to proceed with speed due to a sudden trauma or dangerous haste.  Instead, Mr Mayfield…” Bernie paused for a moment to take a breathe and deliberately unclench her jaw which she had felt start to tighten, a moment in which the clock ticked on to 4.27. “...I find you not even holding a scalpel.”  

  
She stepped up to the operating table, now effectively nose to nose with him, Mrs Cardwain on the table between them, her shoulders square and relaxed, in marked contrast to his which were now hunching and tight.  “Allow me to pass one to you.”  She held out her hand and the waiting nurse silently placed the scalpel in her hand, the sharp blade glinting under the theatre lights, ready to make a first cut.  Bernie held out the scalpel to give to him, noting his tentative reluctance to unset his jaw, his struggle to relax his shoulder enough to raise his hand towards her.  Just when he’d started to reach for the scalpel, she moved it away a fraction, a question seemingly suddenly occurring to her.  “I wonder, Mr Mayfield, since you were so diligent in contemplating your patient before taking knife in hand, could you indicate to me where you will be making your incision? After all…” Bernie noted the time was now 4.28 and, in the corner of her eye, saw Dominic appear in the Observation Window, clearly scrubbed and ready for theatre but intercepted by Hanssen, kept out of the web she was spinning.  “You did suggest I had something to learn…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you you enjoyed it.


	5. Chapter 5

“Ah, Dr Copeland.”  On one level, it always amused Henrik when people did a double take when he called their name despite looking in the other direction, but more usually he just noted that once again, otherwise very intelligent and talented people failed to realise he’d seen their reflection in a window.  “A moment please.”

 

“But Isaac, I mean…” Dom spun around on the spot, keeping his hands up level with his face so as not to contaminate them before he got into theatre and could be gowned and gloved.  “Mr Mayfield is waiting for me.”

 

“Mr Mayfield can wait a moment longer…”  Henrik watched the reflection that showed Dom’s agonised indecision - did he heed to Hanssen’s request to stay out of theatre or did he yield to the siren’s call, cruel and unappreciative as it most probably would be.  Just when Henrik thought he might have to repeat his request, perhaps by reinforcing that Ms Wolfe was a more than adequate substitute for Dr Copeland, he saw the younger man conclude his inner battle and approach the window.  “Several moments in fact.”

 

“You wanted to see me?”  Dom winced the moment he’d finished speaking, not having intended to sound as surly as he realised he’d come across.  Hanssen may not be his favourite person, or even one of his favourite consultants at the hospital, but Dom knew that for all his quirks and exacting standards the CEO had been, in his own way, decent and kind to him at various points in his time at Holby.  However there was nothing he could do now, apart from hope that he had either not noticed Dom’s attitude or, as was actually the case, elected to ignore it.

 

“How is Mr Barker?”

 

“You know who I was operating on?”  Incredulity left Dom momentarily speechless as he looked at Hanssen, trying to work out what the angle was, what was ‘special’ about either Mr Barker or Mrs Cardwain, what it was that had brought the cases to Hanssen’s attention.  He didn’t even notice that his first thought was that Isaac must have complained that he’d not been available before Mrs Cardwain went into theatre.  “I know that I’m late for Mrs Cardwain, but Ms Wolfe…”

 

“Ms Wolfe recommended you join Mr di Lucca in theatre for Mr Barker’s operation and was quite prepared for you to stay in theatre with Mr di Lucca for the remainder of that operation.  I understand that you led for the hernia repair and impressed.”  Henrik smiled with genuine pleasure for the younger doctor, remembering the occasions when he’d been unexpectedly invited to lead for a part of an operation - it was a special feeling, coming as it did at a time when the novelty of actually being in theatre, cutting and stitching and generally contributing to a patient’s ‘cure’ or ‘fix’ was, if not becoming mundane was perhaps beginning to lose some of its original lustre.

 

“Yes, well…” Wrong-footed, not having expected Hanssen to know the details of his time in theatre with Mr Barker nevermind then be complimenting him, Dom wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to be saying or doing, although a glance into theatre confirmed what he’d already known - Isaac was not happy, although Ms Wolfe seemed to be her usual self so at least Mrs Cardwain was still stable...hopefully.  

 

“And yet you came here?  I’m sure Mrs Cardwain would have understood your staying with Mr Barker…” Henrik turned his attention briefly back to theatre, noting that Bernie was now stood up by the operating table which suggested that he didn’t have much longer to wait.  Ms Wolfe was proving to be as adept and efficient in containing surgeons as she was bleeds.

 

“Mr Mayfield needs me...” But even as he said the words, Dom was struggling to know what he meant by them, “...to assist…” Raf di Lucca had wanted him to stay and work with him on the remainder of Mr Barker’s surgery and yet, here was Dom, about to go and stumble over his apologies for being late to Isaac despite not being late...No matter that there had been days when his respect for and opinion of Ms Wolfe as a person had been, well, complicated, Dom had never doubted her abilities as a surgeon and his professional respect and opinion of her was second to none, not even Hanssen...well, maybe joint equal with Hanssen, although he was still an enigma as a person in a way that Ms Wolfe wasn’t...except when she was.  

 

Realising he was effectively having a rambling discussion with himself when he should probably be in theatre, Dom shook himself out of his thoughts, not noting that he’d managed to distract himself from his original question and tried to pay Hanssen proper attention.

 

“Is that so?”  

 

“Is what so?”  Dom blinked, trying to remember what the question was.  “You’ve lost me.”

 

“Mr Mayfield…” Hanssen spared theatre a brief glance, sensing as much from the attitude of everyone in theatre other than Ms Wolfe that Mr Mayfield would probably be deemed surplus to requirements, for Mrs Cardwain at least, fairly quickly.  “You say he needs you…”

 

“Well yes, I’m assisting.”

 

“Not leading?”

 

“Mr Mayfield is leading now…” Dom clamped his mouth shut but it wasn’t in time, with the crack opened just enough for Hanssen to push against.

 

“Now?  Meaning you were originally not having Mr Mayfield’s…” Hanssen’s pause gave the impression that he was searching for the right word when he was in fact momentarily distracted by the glint of the scalpel that Ms Wolfe had just moved away from Mr Mayfield’s presumed grasp.  

 

“Leadership?” prompted Dom, trying to keep the conversation moving so he could get on into theatre even as he felt his stomach knot in dread at what sort of mood he would encounter.  The surgery with Raf had been brilliant, but it had been organised so quickly, and with barely a few minutes to grab a sandwich and drink while Raf caught him up on the details of the case and what the surgery plan was, that Dom hadn’t seen Isaac to explain, to tell him that he’d had no choice, that Ms Wolfe was not someone who could be said no to…

 

“Leadership is earned, not imposed Dr Copeland.”

 

“By CEOs maybe…” Catching sight of his own reflection in the observation window, Dom rolled his eyes at the return of the surliness that wasn’t meant for Hanssen.  Knowing that there was little he could do or say that would undo the error, Dom decided his only option was to pretend he’d not spoken and just start again.  “Was there anything else Mr Hanssen?  Only Mrs Cardwain…”

  
“Of course Dr Copeland.”  Hanssen looked at Dom and gave him a small, almost courtly bow seemingly by way of dismissal.  “Your patient needs you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it.


	6. Chapter 6

“Mr Mayfield?”

 

“I…” 

 

He didn’t know whether to look at her, the scalpel or the patient.  

 

He could feel the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades, no doubt making his scrub top damp but no one would be able to see, the theatre gown covering it up.  He couldn’t snatch the scalpel from her hand - no matter how loosely she might be holding it currently, he doubted it would remain that way if he didn’t provide an answer.  Nor, he suspected, would the nurse give him another scalpel if he were to ask for one - the consultant’s word was generally law in theatre at the best of times no matter how unconventional their behaviour might be...wait, was that the solution to his problem?  It would certainly buy him the minute or so until Dom finally turned up, since she was clearly expecting him.  Plan formed, he carefully relaxed his shoulders and back muscles and steadily met her gaze, his hands resolutely remaining in front of him but not reaching for the scalpel.  “I don’t play games Ms Wolfe…”  He was pleased with how resolute he sounded, in control...yes, there, she blinked...he was on top again…

 

“Is that what you think this is?” Bernie  _ had _ blinked when she’d heard his statement, a deep ingrained reaction from her earliest days in the Army having learnt early on that jaw dropping amazement did little to actually help a conversation with an idiot.  Better, she had discovered, was to channel her disbelief into a blink, a single down and up of her eyelids before, shock neatly compartmentalised, she continued forwards taking careful steps towards occasionally saving herself from additional ‘punishment’ duties but more usually, saving her patient.

 

“Isn’t it?”  Convinced her blink had been the only visible element of her shifting onto the backfoot, Isaac felt his confidence return as he pressed home what he considered to be his advantage.  It could only be a few more moments until Dom arrived and they could get this operation started properly, by which time he really didn’t give a damn if Ms Wolfe stayed or not.  Then, by the time the patient was headed for Recovery, he’d have to have a word with Dom…in fact, he already knew what he was going to say…

 

“Football...”  Her voice startled him out of his planning, her tone triggering a small hint of doubt as he rapidly tried to work out what she was implying and what, therefore, his next move had to be as clearly, Dom bloody Copeland had got lost or something.

 

“Excuse me?”  

 

His ego meant he couldn’t listen to that little moment of nagging doubt for more than a second, but was instead focussing not on how she was speaking and standing, but what she was saying….and since that was apparently blithering nonsense, she was making it easy for him now, which was disappointing. The prodigal consultant, expert general surgeon and one of the best trauma surgeons he could ever hope to operate alongside was not going to beat him today, but it was all fizzling out rather feebly, with this nonsense and that was disappointing for him, like the patient who survives the operation but fades away on the ward: both deprived him the opportunity for the final flourish, the hero’s action to flay the competition or cheat death...  Admittedly, she’d perhaps come closer than he’d like, closer than anyone else had come for a very long time but ultimately she was losing and he would succeed, with or without Dom’s hindrance.  All he had to do now was keep her talking, keep her distracted from her original question about where this bloody incision should go…

 

“Or rugby...no, you’ve still got your ears and nose.”  Bernie knew she had lost him, knew too that he was regaining confidence by the second as she gave the appearance of having forgotten what she’d been fixated on.  “Those, Mr Mayfield, are games.  But this?”  She used her hand that was holding the scalpel to gesture towards Mrs Cardwain, a movement that allowed her the opportunity to satisfy herself that although confused by what was or wasn’t happening in theatre, the anaesthetist seemed fundamentally at ease with the patient’s condition.  “This is not a game.  So I ask you again, Mr Mayfield, to kindly indicate where you will be making your incision?”  Bernie hated having to address him as a fellow surgeon but wasn’t prepared to risk creating the illusion of familiarity with him that his first name conferred...god she missed being able to growl out a rank….

 

He’d underestimated her, which was a mistake but not impossible to overcome, he just had to concentrate, to keep going and last long enough until Dom got into bloody theatre.  Then, knew Isaac, feeling the unseen heat in his cheeks shift from embarrassment at being caught by her to the glow of satisfaction as his new plan formed, creating the escape route he’d been waiting for.  When bloody Copeland minced in, he’d be able to explode, to channel all his hatred at being embarrassed by her at Dom as a focussed blast of anger that he would damp down as fast as it raged up...it would only need a moment to distract her, to destroy Dom’s concentration, dear sweet Dom with his nerves and insecurities and his eager need to please.  He’d force Dom to take the scalpel, he’d know where to put this bloody incision and then, finally, he could control the operation and be the successful surgeon he was.

 

“My incision?  Well…” Playing for time, he looked from her to the patient’s scarred stomach, exposed by the theatre nurses ready for him to start, looking distastefully at the surprise that he’d not anticipated, that stupid Dom hadn’t told him about.  “...Obviously, the traditional incision site is not ideal…” He’d not seen anything in her notes about scarring, nothing in her patient history about whatever these burns were...something else to correct Dom about…

 

“Obviously…”  Bernie didn’t need to look at Mrs Cardwain’s exposed stomach to see the pocked and scarred skin that told of decades of surgeries, repeated attempts to help the damaged flesh recover after some horrific burns and then, later, more surgery to bring a baby into the world.  That, presumably, had then given rise to yet more surgery and explained the evidence of relatively contemporary skin graft attempts.  While it hadn’t been explicitly stated in the patient history on file, the signs were there with the mentions of ‘skin discolouration’, and ‘reduced sensation’.  That there wasn’t a long list of the numerous surgeries and procedures included in the history was understandable too - even if Mrs Cardwain could remember the details, they would probably be meaningless given that the last one had probably been before Dom or Isaac had been born, possibly even before Bernie had been born, judging by the scars.  All Bernie could really infer was that the surgery had been in the ‘new era’ of plastic surgery that the Second World War had helped usher in, absently reminding her of all the other medical discoveries and procedures they’d redefined in the heat of battles and immediate aftermaths and which were slowly filtering out into general medicine, but that wasn’t of relevance to their still waiting patient.

 

What had been relevant, as far as treating Mrs Cardwain’s current challenges went,  and therefore diligently recorded in the patient file by Dr Copeland was knowing that she’d had no recent surgery, had gone through the menopause some twenty years or so ago but had, in Bernie’s view, been understandably vague on exactly when, and was in possession of all her originally issued internal organs.  Furthermore, scans had confirmed that, aside from her current difficulty that today’s procedure was intended to help with, all organs were where they were supposed to be and performing rather well considering their time in service.  

 

All in all, a quick glance at the patient’s file summary, scan and test results would suggest that this was nice and straightforward, something Mayfield had shown a particular talent for spotting and snatching out from Dom’s increasingly feeble grasp.  

 

A quick glance at the patient however, and the situation was all a bit more complex, a complexity that Mayfield hadn’t known about when he’d found himself looking at this exposed abdomen...an abdomen he’d not examined before…

 

“I’m still waiting Mr Mayfield.”  And she’d continue to wait, wait until she had him properly caught in his own web, tangled in such a way that he couldn’t escape nor take his fly down with him…

 

“Sorry…” Dom Copeland’s voice cut through the increasing tension in theatre like the scalpel Bernie hadn’t relinquished would at some point demonstrate.  “I’m…” As Dom was helped with his gown and gloves, he tried to work out what was going on, not having been able to really see what was going on through the window while he was having that very strange conversation with Hanssen.

 

“Right on time Dr Copeland,” declared Bernie cheerily, bringing Dom into the operation in such a way that Isaac’s latest plan crumbled underneath him, her intervention the first of a series of cuts she was about to make to the remaining strands of increasingly taut web Isaac still tried to pull but would instead be useless.  “You’re just in time to hear Mr Mayfield’s opinion of where the best place is to make the first incision.”

 

“Oh, I see.”  Looking over his shoulder to nod in thanks at the nurse who’d just finished tying up his gown, Dom tried to work out what Isaac might answer since, as far as Dom could tell, Isaac had no idea about Mrs Cardwain’s rather challenging abdominal presentation.

 

“Yes, I was…” Isaac had one final gamble he could make, a twisting turn so vicious that it was going to hurt someone in the process and while he had every intention of it not being him, he no longer cared if the damage he inflicted was on Ms Wolfe or Dom.  “But since Dr Copeland has elected to finally join us, Dominic?”  Isaac turned and looked at Dom, his eyes full of the fury he felt at being cornered this tightly, of the cruelty that was his only way out.  “Why don’t you show Ms Wolfe where the incision needs to go...actually no.”  He cut himself off and, in a big show of turning away from Dom to make eye contact with Ms Wolfe again, wanting her to see that he’d beaten her.  “Stay there and tell Ms Wolfe where we agreed the incision needs to be.”

 

“Stay here?”  Dom’s immediate reaction was to the hurt at being denied access to the operating table.  He’d seen the venom in his boyfriend’s eyes and missed the spite in his words - he’d earned a place at the table, working these last few days on understanding that for all the challenge of trying to gain Mrs Cardwain’s trust and confidence to actually tell him how she was feeling, to show him where it was hurting, her symptoms were treatable and the underlying issue managed with this procedure.  It was one thing to be sharing the table  with Isaac, after all he was still only learning, but to now not be allowed to see the patient?  To reacquaint himself with the visual clues and landmarks he’d identified that would help them ensure the new scar they created on Mrs Cardwain’s abdomen was somewhere that provided good access to the Sigmoid Colon but at the same time avoided her existing scar tissue and would heal well…

 

“This is a teaching hospital Mr Mayfield…” warned Bernie coolly, hoping that if Hanssen’s little chat hadn’t tipped Dom off that he was better than Isaac both professionally and personally, then maybe he’d still retain some tiny instinct of self-preservation and recognise that she was about to make her earliest days on Keller seem warm and approachable.

 

“Which is why I’m teaching Dr Copeland now.”   Isaac almost gave himself away with a ‘sing-song’ quality to his voice as he patronised her, feeling with absolute certainty that he’d escaped her traps and was free, with the added bonus of fresh scars and putdowns to administer to Dom over the coming days.

 

“Get out.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Get out of this operating theatre.”  She didn’t shout, the opposite in fact as her voice became quieter as a fierceness began to burn its way through her layers of control, getting nearer to the surface as finally, she’d had enough.

 

“On what grounds?”  It was a reflex question, an automatic play for time deflection while he tried to regain his balance, her demand blindsiding him like a punch in the gut, but he’d find his feet, he always did...and then he’d go for her…

 

“Step back from the table and get out of my theatre,” she repeated, not noticing both Dom and the Theatre Sister share a wince - she was speaking so quietly she should have been inaudible and yet somehow her voice managed to be deafening in the soundless theatre that was actually still full of the noises of a stable patient whose pulse was strong, BP steady and lungs ventilated.  Whatever it was that Ms Wolfe had been prepared to wait for had clearly just been delivered.

 

“It’s my patient.”  It was taking all of Isaac’s efforts to keep himself controlled, trying to keep her at bay just long enough to regroup, to work out what she thought she knew.  It never occurred to him that, in taking on Bernie Wolfe, he was no longer the undefeated spider whose talent for catching flies was unbeatable.

 

“That, Mr Mayfield, is the point at which you’ve lost the game.”  Bernie passed the scalpel she was holding back to the nurse and brought her hands together in front of her.

 

“You can’t make me leave.  You’re not running the Service, just overseeing the Ward.”  It was a weak, pedantic point but it was all he had left to throw.

 

“Leave, now.”  Bernie was about to say something more when a movement behind Isaac caught her eye, making her change her mind about the words that she wanted to say next.  “Your presence in this operating theatre is no longer required.”

 

“You don’t have the authority…” His world unravelling, so too was his pride.  Gone was the calculating punching, the precision cuts, replaced instead with frantic slashing and wild swings.

 

“We can all agree…” Hanssen’s voice was loud and clear over the intercom, his presence a shock to Isaac, causing him to spin round and see the CEO stood calmly in the observation room.  “...that I unquestionably do.  Step out of theatre Mr Mayfield.  Now.”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is becoming something of a longer read, especially since each chapter would seem to be covering less than minute of 'action' more often than not, I give you a 'story so far' recap Haiku:
> 
> Wolfe: Surgeon, Champion.  
> Isaac: Manipulator,  
> Met match, fights on. Fool.
> 
> And now, I hope you enjoy the next chapter....

There was a long moment in which the Theatre Sister was fairly confident only the patient and Ms Wolfe were breathing, with Mrs Cardwain not really having much choice since she was ventilated.  Certainly she knew none of the nurses were breathing just as she wasn’t either, not wanting to risk attracting any attention to themselves as everyone waited to see what Mr Mayfield was going to do.  Most would have worked out several minutes ago that Ms Wolfe was not going to be persuaded that his presence was welcome in theatre and gone quietly, but ‘most’ wasn’t Isaac Mayfield.  Fortunately, it did seem that he was at least in the minority who were stupid and conceited enough to think they could best Ms Wolfe but sensible enough not to try and tackle her and Mr Hanssen simultaneously, although if looks could kill…

 

Angrily, Isaac stepped back from the table, his eyes locked on Ms Wolfe’s and blazing with fury.  He didn’t know why Hanssen was outside, or how long he’d been there, but until Isaac could work that out, he needed to not engage with the CEO.  His conceited opinion of himself meant it never occurred to him that it was his behaviour that was attracting the negative attention, nor made him consider that he wouldn’t find a way of coming out on top of this too.  It would be excellent to have something to hold over Ms Wolfe...and if he could include Hanssen in it too, well, that would be perfect.   Yes, that’s what he’d do: if he left now, she’d have to finish the operation with Dom, giving him time to work out his next moves.  He’d be waiting for them at the end of the surgery and deal with Dom first...she’d be harder to take down a peg or two but she’d put her faith in Dom not him, and that wasn’t acceptable.  She’d been interfering ever since she suddenly appeared on Keller and it was confusing things, giving Dom another voice that he listened to and respected...a voice that should only be Isaac’s...he’d think of something, something that made Dom see she wasn’t this superhero without a cape that Dom’d made her to be...but since she’d made this into a war, well, it was only courteous to let her win something... 

 

“As you wish, Doctor.”  He’d concede this battle.

 

Stepping away from the table, Isaac kept his gaze locked on hers, wanting to see her reaction, to have goaded her into a response that would see him start their next interaction one up.  He took two more steps backwards, as slowly as he dared, confident that she’d have to do something…

 

Bernie had watched him show his true feelings for her in his eyes as he obviously tried to calculate what his options were given Hanssen’s agreement with her request, a request that she’d not been unduly concerned about getting his compliance with.  She might be several years his senior and nothing like the muscle-bound clean living gym obsessive he clearly wished to portray himself as, but her strength had been steadily accumulated over the years of brutal surgeries in the front line; it gave her deep reserves of both mental and physical strength the like of which the Isaacs of this world would never truly understand, not to mention practical skills and knowledge that meant her strength, when she needed it, was used with the same surgical precision that she wielded the scalpel.  

 

As she watched the muscles in his neck tense, saw the fabric of his surgical mask shift and crumple as he moved his jaw in fury, his chin shifting up and down as he chewed on his lip, the grinding of his teeth creating just enough movement of the cartilage of his ears for his surgical cap to slightly bob, she remained calm and still.  There was no conscious effort on her part to keep her neck muscles relaxed because there was no tension; no telltale rustling of facemask as she sighed with frustration or hyperventilated with anger because there was neither fury or anger to vent; there would be no cuts on her lip from where she bit it, because there were no ill-chosen, emotional outbursts that she had to fight to contain, nor was there any dentistry going to be needed to repair any teeth because there was no grinding.  That wasn’t to say that she had no response to give, no reactions and emotions that she’d like to let rip with - quite the opposite, she had plenty but she also had patience.  Now was not the moment, for it would achieve nothing except ensure that he felt he could start again, from a surer position having performed in front of an audience.  No, now was Mrs Cardwain’s moment, her time to benefit from the amassed audience in Theatre Three G.  Bernie could wait, Bernie would wait. 

 

She’d caught her spider, in a web from which there was no escape.  She knew that.  It didn’t matter if her catch didn’t… he wasn’t going to be spinning any more webs but he was welcome to try…

 

Realising he’d gone as far as he could before he needed to turn his back on her, Isaac ripped off his gloves, delighting in the fact that he saw at least four people jump at the noise they made, including Dom...poor, stupid Dom, who’d evidently run to ‘Mummy’ like the snivelly little child he still was and told tales…

 

Turning around, pulling his theatre gown off as he did so, Isaac blinked and refocused on Dom, stood looking like he’d just broken something precious...wincing in anticipation at what might happen to him.  Which was as it should be, decided Isaac, his eyes narrowing as he caught Dom’s eye for a moment before he strode for the door, not looking back or acknowledging anyone else.  He didn’t need to, there was no one else who was of relevance to him.

 

She’d declared War.

 

He’d tactically surrendered this Battle.

 

Dom would pay for that.

 

But first, Hanssen.  Whose side was he on?  There could only be one answer to that as far as Isaac was concerned...he just had to get Hanssen to see it his way…

 

“Mr Hanssen.”  Isaac pulled his theatre mask away from his face as he made a conscious effort to sound bright and accommodating, like he’d come out of theatre in order to do the CEO a favour.  “How good to have you back at Holby…”

 

In the world according to Isaac, only Isaac could win.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, maybe 'enjoy' was the wrong verb...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

“Dr Copeland?”  In contrast to how she’d sounded a second earlier when dismissing Isaac from theatre, Bernie’s voice was warm and encouraging as she sought to attract Dom’s attention back from the now shut theatre door to her, and his patient.  “Dom?”

 

“Huh….mmm….Oh.”  Jolted back into theatre, Dom was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of nausea like he’d not felt since his first time in theatre as a med student.  All he wanted to do was collapse against something and let his flip-flopping stomach take over.  Feeling lightheaded, his eyes started darting round theatre, looking for somewhere, something to lean against.

 

“Breathe Dom…” Bernie remained where she was, stood on the ‘wrong’ side of Mrs Cardwain, the side that a left handed leading surgeon would stand on, and, good as she was, she couldn’t do a  laparoscopic sigmoid colectomy left handed.  Well, on second thoughts she absently noted as she watched Dom’s shoulders shift as, to his credit, he did appear to be trying to breathe, she probably could do it left handed if she were to be desperate enough to try, but she made a point in her surgical career to never be that desperate.  “Keep breathing and look at me Dom…” She could see the clock out of the corner of her eye, 4.32.  No doubt it felt much later to most of the people in theatre but it was still early, they still had plenty of time.  They had time for Dom to take a breath, time for him to believe that she believed he could do this operation.

 

“I…”  His hands were still held up in front of his chest, managing to somehow be pointed upwards towards the ceiling and yet hanging limply, the fingers slack and lifeless, forgotten by his racing brain as it chased ghosts of memory and ran from future fears.  Theatre was the last place he wanted to be, it was the scene of his latest disaster, the place where Isaac had just destroyed him, trampled over him for being in the wrong place, for getting out of his depth.  He just wanted to run away and hide, to disappear and chuck his guts up and wish the day, the week was over and he could start again, far far away from it all…

 

“Look at me Dom…” It was her voice, the warmth and trust in it that made him focus on her, to stop looking anywhere but over there, in the pool of light that illuminated the Ms Wolfe and the patient.  “Breathe…” she reminded him, humour in her voice as she glanced around the theatre, knowing that everyone was still on edge.  “Just think of the hospital gossip if I had to do mouth to mouth on you.”  He’d barked out a laugh before he’d realised what he was doing, the idea of the two of them in such a position sounding so crazy and comic that he was distracted by the visual she’d painted for him.  Suddenly, theatre, this theatre was the only place he wanted to be, stood over a patient with her, trying to concentrate like mad so he didn’t make a mistake while she made bad jokes and helpful observations, eager to please but desperate to learn.  Here, in this theatre, with her, he knew where he was for the first time in what felt like a lifetime: the ground had stopped shifting, the lights had stopped strobing and dazzling him, the blood had stopped rushing and his heart...his heart was still pounding but it was pounding with strength and determination not fear.  If he made a mistake she would tell him and make sure he learned as he fixed it.  If he was out of his depth she would help, take over if she needed to but support him to try if it was possible.

 

“Hi…”  He didn’t like how small his voice sounded when he finally found it, squeezed it out through a dry and tight throat, but he liked how her eyes sparkled with something when she heard it, making him swallow and try to continue as his feet took him closer to the table, into the light.

 

“How’s Mr Barker?”  She was smiling, behind her mask, her body relaxed and her eyes calm and kind.

 

“Good, stable… Mr di Lucca was happy with the repair.”

 

“Excellent news Dr Copeland.”  She looked at him thoughtfully, noticing everything, considering all that she knew about him and all the young men she’d seen in the Army caught in traps and webs, no two boys ever exactly the same but close enough to help her understand, to develop and hone her instincts.  “Step up to the table.”

 

“On this side?”  Startled, he looked pointedly at the nurse, positioned ready to hand the lead surgeon the scalpel that would start Mrs Cardwain’s procedure.  “But you’re right handed…”

 

“We both are Dr Copeland, at least, you were last time I had the privilege of watching your handiwork from this side of the table.”  She stopped talking, her point implied but not spelt out, waiting to see if he understood, if he believed in her still.  He didn’t have to believe that he could do it, that would take longer than Bernie could let Mrs Cardwain give him, he just had to believe in Bernie.  She had enough belief in him for both of them.

 

“But…”

 

“I’m not going anywhere Dom,” she reassured, holding out her hand for the nurse to give her the scalpel again, the shiny metal flashing as it caught the bright overhead light.  “I’ll be with you all the way to the final stitch.”  She turned the scalpel round in her hand, so that the blade was pointed towards her and the handle was pointed towards him.  “She’s your patient Doctor.”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

“No buts Dr Copeland.”  She gestured for him to step up to the table and take the scalpel from her, knowing that he would be fine once he made the first incision.  “Shoulders back, stand up straight…” She relaxed her grip of the scalpel when she felt him take hold of it, the baton passed without hindrance or challenge this time, her faith and confidence well founded.  “Everything’s going to be fine…”  She waited until he was looking at her again, the scalpel hovering between them in mid air.  “You’ll see.”

 

Looking back down at Mrs Cardwain’s abdomen, Dom took a deep breath and repositioned the scalpel in his hand so it felt familiar and comfortable, before finally, moving his hand to the non-traditional but most appropriate place to make the necessary incision to be then able to continue with the procedure given her prior history and scar tissue.  “Making first incision…. Exposing the peritoneum...suction please Ms Wolfe…”

 

In the Army they never left a man behind.

 

Major Wolfe wasn’t about to start now.

 

“Very nice Dr Copeland, let me know when you’d like the ‘scope…”

 

It was 4.35… things were back on track...


	9. Chapter 9

“Indeed.”  Hanssen stood waiting patiently while Isaac removed his theatre hat and quickly washed his hands.  Unsure whether to interpret the CEO’s acknowledgement of his welcome back greeting as a positive or negative response, Isaac ostensibly made great show of concentrating on the routine process of washing his hands while actually trying to study Hanssen’s reflection in the glass.  What did he want?  Why was he watching from the observation room?  How long had he been there?  

 

When he could delay no longer, Isaac gave his hands a final rinse before reaching for the paper towels and drying his hands and forearms with equal vigor and commitment before tossing the towels in the rubbish.  He was about to reach up and remove his glasses, not needing them now he wasn’t stood over a patient when he realised that the fairly inscrutable CEO was even more impossible to read due to the overhead lights that were reflecting on the lenses of Hanssen’s glasses.  It was a minute advantage, one so small that he’d not bothered thinking about it for years, since he was a med student in fact, until now.  Changing his mind at the last second, and casually scratching his temple instead, Isaac set his face in what he knew was his most open and ‘how can I help’ expression and kept his glasses on.  

 

“This way, Mr Mayfield.”

 

There was, Isaac acknowledged with a grudging respect for the tall Swede, something impeccably precise in the gesture that meant, were he to relate this moment to anyone, he would be unable to convey anything except faultless courtesy...a courtesy that meant he could only tighten his smile and fall into step, unable to even snatch a final glaring glance into theatre as he left the theatre suite.  But there was something about the way in which Hanssen stepped to the side and extended his arm to indicate where, precisely ‘this way’ was that managed to jab a hot poker of fury right into the heart of Isaac, a heart that was still pounding to a rage-fueled beat…Dom’s fault...he would pay...Dom’s fault…

 

“Mr Hanssen?”  Hearing his name called, Henrik stopped walking and turned around, only to see one of the Senior Theatre Nurses rushing towards him, clutching something that evidently required his attention.

 

“Yes Nurse…” Isaac stayed rooted to the spot, tuning out Hanssen’s voice, not seeing anything beyond the nurse’s uniform who equally, weren’t really noticing Isaac.  In that moment they were to each other nothing more than their professional statuses - she was a scrub clad nurse and he was a scrub wearing surgeon, their interest to each other not extending beyond the formulaic nods of greeting, of inferred apologies for the interruption and automatic assurance of no offence taken.  

 

As he stood, apparently patiently in the corridor just along from the theatre suite that he had been operating in, the theatre suite he should have been still operating in, Isaac’s pulse was starting to match the ticking rhythm of his anger...Dom’s fault...Dom’s fault...Dom’s fault…

 

Feeling his chest tightening with an anger that he knew he had to keep a hold on, had to regain control over, Isaac interlocked his fingers behind his back and forced himself to open out his shoulders, making him appear taller and squarer.  Walking in this position wouldn’t be quite as easy as standing, but it was familiar - a neat trick he’d taught himself right around the same time he was last having to resort to the reflections on his glasses helping him to maintain an unreadable expression, the same time he’d first started using poor, silly boys like Dom.   It would only needed a few paces for the burn in his shoulders to ease as the muscles adjusted to the position again, only needed a few more paces for the tension in the front of his throat to drain away, for the rage to retreat and the calm return.

 

He had no idea how much time had elapsed while he waited for Hanssen to finish resolving whatever it was the nurse had needed - Isaac didn’t really care, having been too caught up in his own thoughts, although he did vaguely track Hanssen stepping back a few yards down the corridor to a phone and punching in first one extension then, having an answer, dialled another number...  

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Mr Mayfield…” Hanssen saw Isaac snap back from wherever his thoughts had taken him but didn’t give him a chance to respond.  “...a minor delay but shall we continue?”  And, with no explanation or attempt at small talk, Henrik set off down the corridor once more, leaving Isaac with no choice but to fall into step and continue to accompany the CEO wherever it was that they were headed.

 

He would be fine.

 

He would make sure he was fine.

 

He was going to be fine...he’d make sure others paid for this.

 

“Mr Hanssen?”

 

“Yes Mr Mayfield?”  Hanssen turned slightly so as to be able to do him the courtesy of looking him in the eye, a courtesy that due to their relative heights, meant Isaac suddenly felt loomed over, but only for a moment before he again braced his fingers behind his back and stood tall - looming happened to people who were guilty, who were in the wrong.  He was neither, but he was unable to contain his curiosity, yes, that was it: he was unable to contain his curiosity - it wasn’t uncertainty about his situation, merely curiosity.

 

“I’d assumed you’d come to theatre because I was needed for a consult?”  Isaac angled his head slightly and moved his eyebrows just enough to project genial, almost amused idle curiosity in their mystery destination that, based on the fact that they’d walked past the two banks of lifts and three sets of stairs Isaac knew led back to the general surgical wards of the Wyvern Wing, not to mention a further three interruptions from various members of staff that all sought to snatch a minute or two of the CEO’s attention.

 

“I see.”  Hanssen stopped by the bank of lifts and pressed the call button.  “You are revising your hypothesis?”

 

“Should I be?”  As the lift doors opened, Isaac stepped aside to let the group of people out before stepping into the lift with Hanssen, glad of the moment’s break from the intensive scrutiny of the CEO’s gaze.

 

“We’ll see.”  And, pressing the button of the floor he wanted, Hanssen relaxed into silence, a slight hint of a smile almost on his face.

 

She was right - once you knew what to look for, it was obvious.

 

Exiting the lift, Hanssen turned to his left and the headed towards the doors that led onto the bridge, the elevated corridor that connected the two wings of the hospital.  He didn’t look to check that Isaac was following along with him, knowing that the surgeon had little choice but to follow.  While most, at this point, would be thinking about survival, Henrik didn’t think that was the way Isaac Mayfield was looking at it.

 

“This is about my research then.”  Isaac ignored the prickle that he was feeling between his shoulder blades and stepped through the door that Hanssen was holding open, joining the CEO as they walked steadily across the bridge, looking neither right nor left which was something of a shame, thought Hanssen sadly, as the views really were quite magnificent.  There would, however, be opportunity again for the views whereas this, now, with Isaac Mayfield, this was a single opportunity that would be hard if not impossible to secure again.  

 

“In a manner of speaking.”  Hanssen pushed open the door that granted access to the inner sanctum as some saw it - the corridor which was almost out of place in a hospital building, the corridor that wouldn’t be out of place in any corporate headquarters.  Here was where the power lay, indirectly, to determine which patients survived and which wouldn’t quite have enough luck.  Here was where the scalpels were pens and the precise incisions of the surgeon’s knife were signatures on approvals and authorisations, here was where the tactical advantage was his.

 

“Then I should go and retrieve my papers.  It will only take five minutes.”  The prickle was becoming sharper, starting to cut into Isaac’s confidence.  This was wrong, the set up was wrong.  He shouldn’t be here, like this, in his scrubs straight from theatre, his hair sweaty from the scrub cap.  He should be here, in this sanctum, this inner sanctum where the real power lay, but not like this, not in his theatre scrubs, not ‘Mr Mayfield’, Registrar from Keller just emerged from Theatre.  He should be here in his jacket and tie, sharp creases and square knot, cuffs and collar stiff and starched, wielding the pen alongside them, his research reflecting glory onto them, this hospital...that’s how it should be, how it needed to be.

 

“That won’t be necessary.”  Hanssen arrived at his office door and looked back at Isaac, who had stopped in the corridor a few steps back.  “I have everything we need.”  He opened his office door and stepped aside, gesturing with his hand for Isaac to proceed him into the office.

 

“Mr Mayfield?”  

 

Henrik looked steadily at Isaac, his expression impassive, giving no hint or clue as to what his thoughts were as he waited, with seemingly limitless patience for the battle of indecision to wage and conclude within Isaac.  Although he couldn’t see what was showing in the younger man’s eyes due to the reflection of the overhead lights in the lenses of his glasses, Henrik could see him reach behind him, no doubt clasping his hands together and trying to draw his chest up and out, stretching and straining his shoulders as he tried to reconstruct his ‘front’, reinflate his bravado.  It took only a second or two to happen, but Henrik could see that it took longer than Isaac had wanted, longer than he’d expected...that even now, as he took the final steps along the corridor towards Hanssen, it hadn’t quite lifted him up enough, hadn’t quite pushed him forwards like he’d hoped.

 

“Take a seat Mr Mayfield…” Henrik shut the door precisely behind them and headed for his desk chair, taking care not to let his expression shift in any way.  “...your shoelace is undone.”

 

“What’s this about?”  It took more effort than Isaac was comfortable with to sound calm and in control but he just about managed it, his anger and nervousness covered in part by the opportunity he had to lean down and retie his shoelace once he’d sat down, grateful for the chance to regroup for a moment.  There was still a way out of this, he was certain of that….he just had to work out what ‘this’ was first.  When Hanssen didn’t say anything, Isaac’s tenuous hold on his temper started to fracture.  “What’s he said?”

 

“What has who said?”

 

“Dom, Dr Copeland…”  Isaac cleared his throat and leaned back in the chair, trying to steady and slow his breathing, to rebuild his calm - he could do this, he could come through this...and better yet, he could grind Dom to dust in the process.  “He’s…”

 

“Said nothing as far as I’m aware, Mr Mayfield.”  Hanssen rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers together as he considered Isaac steadily, patiently.  “Were you expecting he would?”

 

“I…”

 

Suddenly, with sickening horror, Isaac realised he’d played his hand too early, revealed his Ace thinking it was the high card only for it to bounce off the table like a joker.  He couldn’t answer Hanssen’s question - ‘no’ led to further questions about why his conscience was guilty, why he’d brought up Dom’s name spontaneously, but ‘yes’ was just as bad...what could he say that he thought Dom might have said to provoke this reaction?  There was one way out...it was a risk, but it was all he had left.  All in.

 

“I was led to believe he was going to talk to you, lies and baseless allegations.  I’d assumed it was a harmless threat, heat of the moment but…”  Isaac left the end of his sentence hanging in the air between them, too skilled at these sorts of games to actually outright accuse Dom of making the threat or to explicitly state what basis Isaac had for his assumption, instead carving out his suggestions in the silence, clearly understandable but nothing concrete, nothing quotable.

 

“I see.”  Hanssen looked thoughtfully at his computer screen for a moment, seeing what Isaac had done but not rising to the bait.  Like Isaac, Henrik was also highly skilled at these sorts of games, only Henrik had been playing them for longer, with higher stakes and against even better players than Isaac.  Plus, as if that wasn’t advantage enough, Henrik had another advantage over the younger man… he had reinforcements coming, reinforcements that, thanks to their rather protracted journey from theatre to office, were probably already on their way meaning that they probably didn’t have much longer to wait.

 

“Well?  If it’s not that, and it’s not my research and it’s not a consult, what the hell am I doing here?”

 

“Waiting, Mr Mayfield.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For whom actually.”

 

In his anger, Isaac failed to hear the door open and therefore was unaware of two people stepping into the room, one heading to the back of the room where they sat down at the small meeting table, ready to observe what happened next, the other staying by the door, leaning casually against the wall.

 

“Who are we waiting for then?” ground out Isaac, his hands clenched almost as tightly as his jaw.

 

“For me, Mr Mayfield.”

 

“What are you…” Burning with rage, Isaac hadn’t noticed that he’d jumped up to his feet, his body taut as if he was about to leap at her, the adrenalin helping his anger preparing him for a physical fight as well as an intellectual one.

 

“Mrs Cardwain’s on her way to recovery by the way…” Henrik watched, a spectator with a ringside seat to this bout, Isaac’s temper and fury increasing by the second as Bernie remained cool and unperturbed, content it seemed to stay leaning against the wall by the door, her hands casually stuffed in her scrub trouser pockets.  “Textbook execution of the procedure by Dr Copeland, and even quicker this time.”

 

“Why you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics are used when it's flashback - if this were a TV show there would be clever voice over stuff to make it all work....

 

“I thought I might find you up here…”

 

“I’m…” Dom’s instinctive and automatic assurance that he was ‘fine’ stuck in his throat, forcing him to turn around and actually look at whoever it was that expected him to talk. “...umm… Ms Wolfe…” He tried to smile, to put on the brave front that grown ups were supposed to have but he couldn’t manage it.

 

“I think this is a Bernie moment Dom…” Rather than maintaining eye contact with him, she looked away, giving him the moment or two he needed to interpret her offer, using the time to work out where might be a good place to perch as the rooftop was looking a bit different in the evening darkness.  She was just glad that she’d had a chance to change out of her scrubs - her jeans weren’t that much warmer but would at least cope better with sitting on the metal steps.

 

“I know I’m supposed to thank you…” Every word was taking effort, effort to think about, effort to squeeze out past the lumps in his throat, the words competing for space with the gulps of air and random sounds of grief.  “...but I can’t…”  He turned around and looked for her on the roof, spotting her finally sitting in the little pool of light that illuminated the metal stairs that lifted the walkway up and over some pipes or something.  He knew he was crying, properly crying now but he didn’t care - caring meant having pride and he was past that, way beyond the point of having any pride left…

 

“It’s ok to hate me Dom.”  Bernie occupied herself with putting her briefcase down on the roof beside her, knowing from experience that if she were to catch his eye at this precise moment while his thoughts and emotions were both tangled and fractured, it would force Dom to feel like he had to meet her gaze with a stare of his own, a stare that would be full of challenge, of combat.  Bernie knew he’d have many moments of real challenge in the coming days and weeks, even months ahead that would become hard fought battles that, even when Dom succeeded would leave behind wounds and scars just like any combat.  Those were the moments that he needed to be able to stare down, to push on through; those were the moments that he needed his bravado and strength for, not this one.

 

“I…” Dom worked his jaw and moved his mouth but no sound came out - he was unable to formulate any words or thoughts.  He wanted to hate her, she was right.  He wanted to pound her with his fists and kick her with his feet and scream in her face that she had no right, no right to tear his life apart like she had just done…  He wanted to do that and more, to shake her hard and make her see, really see what she’d done to his life.  What did he have left now?  Didn’t she understand how much she’d taken away from him? 

 

“I don’t know what happened…” Bernie looked back up at him now, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she studied him, looking past the neatly buttoned up winter coat, not being distracted into wondering what exactly could he have in his backpack that made it look so big and yet be so...decorative rather than functional.  “...with you and him, afterwards.”  She didn’t even know if it had been on the Ward or somewhere else, be it a semi-private corner away from patients at least or all the way out of sight in an office somewhere.  “But I can guess…”  She looked thoughtfully at him, watching how he kept moving his arms around, unable to decide between keeping his hands in his coat pockets or wrapping his arms around himself, but always keeping his shoulders slightly hunched… she knew that posture, knew what it meant… “...do you want me to look at your ribs?”

 

“How did you know?”  This was why he couldn’t hate her...he couldn’t yet thank her, but he couldn’t hate her either.  She might not know exactly what had happened but somehow she knew enough to understand… “Aside from being the all knowing super-consultant,” he added, trying to be the cheeky but just able to get away with it Dom Copeland he was supposed to be.

 

“That you’ve probably got a cracked rib or two? Or that you were being abused by a manipulative predator?”  Experience gave Bernie the confidence to not soften her language, to avoid metaphor and euphemism.  Metaphor and euphemism implied that the truth was unpalatable, something unseemly that was just ‘not done’ by ‘people like us’, that the truth was something to be ashamed about.

 

“Both?”  Dom tried to laugh her description off, but his side and stomach protested, meaning he had to settle for a winced half smile.

 

“I knew what to look for.”  Bernie stood up and held out her hand to him.  “C’mon, I’ll have a look now.”

 

“Here?”  Dom looked around, as if to make certain that she hadn’t just clicked her fingers and transported them indoors somewhere, that they were still on the roof.

 

“I can ring Claridges and see if they’ve got a suite we can use if you’d rather?”

 

“I’m more of a boutique hotel man myself…” Despite everything he was feeling, about Isaac, his career, her, he couldn’t help himself and through the tears and the lumps in his throat and knots in his stomach he smiled at the stupid joke, feeling a slight shifting in his stomach when he saw her answering grin… “...thanks…”  Moving carefully but confidently, he picked his way across the roof to where she was standing.  “Now what?”

 

“Let’s take that rucksack off…” Ever practical, Bernie moved around behind him and lifted the weight of the bag off his shoulders, holding the bottom of the bag up so the straps went slack, enabling him to let them fall off his arms without stressing whatever bruising or damage there was to his chest and abdomen.  Putting it down neatly next to her briefcase, she walked back round so she was stood in front of him, able to see the tumult of emotions in his face, a face that was wet and puffy from crying and from fighting the tears.  “I’m going to unbutton your coat…” She studied the buttons for a moment before shifting her gaze up a bit and following the lines of the lapels.

 

“It’s double breasted…” Dom tried to move his arms to show her which line of buttons was functional but his arms felt too heavy to lift and, as he looked down to check that they weren’t held down by something, he saw that she’d already undone them.  “Clever Ms Wolfe…”

 

“Practice…”  She saw his raised eyebrow and reconsidered how he might be interpreting her comment, happy to talk about anything so long as it kept him looking slightly more like the Dom Copeland that smirked his way through Ward rounds only to go all bashful on her in theatre when confronted with a penile fracture.  “Soldiers Dom…”  She took advantage of his distraction as he tried to work out how that related to understanding how his coat buttoned to notice that she could see his shirt tails sticking out from underneath his jumper, making it easy for her to feel his ribs directly if necessary.  “They wear rucksacks and body armour…”

 

“Oh, right…”  Still lost in his thoughts a bit, Dom gestured towards his midriff.  “I’d take it off but…”  He nearly made the obvious, glib joke about it being cold and her not being his type but the words died on him, the desire to tell her the truth too strong.  “...it hurts…”

 

“Then don’t take it off.”  Bernie began a pointed and exaggerated display of warming her hands.  “Do you want to tell me what happened while I have a feel?” she asked kindly, making a show of offering her hands to him so he could decide if they were warm enough…

 

“Thanks…” He let go of her hands with a weak smile, glad that he wasn’t having to tense in anticipation of an icy cold touch.  “...there’s not much to tell…”  He breathed in, anticipating her request, trying to suppress the wince he knew was coming.  “...Mrs Cardwain was just back on the Ward…”

 

“ _ Number Four please…” directed Essie, accepting the notes from the porter as he passed the nurse’s station, steering the still woozy Mrs Cardwain towards the waiting bed space.  “...Dom?” _

 

_ “Hmm?”  Startled out of his thoughts, Dom automatically reached out and took the file from her without really registering what it was, only to be jolted very much back into the present when he saw the patient name.  “She’s only just come back?  But…” Immediately concerned, Dom started flicking through the notes, trying to find whatever it was that would explain why she’d spent so long in recovery considering how well the surgery had gone. _

 

_ “She’s fine…”  Essie didn’t need to look at the notes to know, she’d been having to deal with slow moving patients all shift.  “...Porter shortage, everything’s taking twice as long.” _

 

_ “Oh…”  Sheepishly Dom returned to the first page in the notes and set about reviewing them properly, a small bubble of pride building in his chest when he saw Ms Wolfe’s distinctive scribble writing in Dom’s name as the lead surgeon with her assisting.  Scanning through the notes, that little bubble of pride swelled into a warm feeling of achievement, tangible progress in his skills and career as there, recorded in black and white forever more as part of Mrs Cardwain’s medical history was his part in a surgery done well, a surgery that he’d led, a surgery that only a few months ago he’d have been lucky to assist with. _

 

_ “You ok?  You seem…” Essie wasn’t sure how to describe what she was seeing - from a distance he looked like ‘happy Dom’ with the slightly shy head bob and half smile, as well he should if Ms Wolfe’s comments when Essie saw her as she left the theatre suite were true and, knowing Ms Wolfe, they would be.  But now, looking at him more closely, Essie could see that there was a nervousness about his movements, that despite his happiness there was a lingering anxiety, like he was… “...on edge?  Are you waiting for something?”  She looked around the well controlled chaos of the nurses’ station, reasonably confident that there were no messages for him but double checking nonetheless.  “No messages…” _

 

_ “I’m fine…”  File reviewed, he handed it back to Essie with a tight smile.  “Just going to get some air.  Be back in five…” _

 

“Ooo…”  Bernie’s probing fingers brought him sharply back into the present.

 

“Sorry…”  Watching his expression carefully, Bernie repositioned her hand slightly and gently probed the ribs above and below the one that was making him wince.  “Did you get your fresh air?”

 

“No…”  Dom sighed in relief when the probing stopped, only to wince as that also made his chest hurt.  “He saw me and...got me into the office.”  He saw her frown, knowing what she was thinking.  “It wasn’t security’s fault, it happened so quickly…”

  
  


_ Head down, Dom headed towards the Ward exit, his focus firmly on his phone which was stubbornly insisting that he had no messages...no texts...the only email he’d had was standard hospital circulars advising which consultants were going to be running which services in the coming week and that wasn’t what he was looking for….there must be a message, there had to be a message...maybe when he got outside the signal would be better... _

 

_ Instinct saw him snatch the phone tight when he felt himself jerked off balance and shoved through an open doorway, his hand registering that the phone was otherwise flying away long before he realised what else was happening. _

 

_ “What the…”  Blinking rapidly while he regained his balance, he realised where he was and what had happened.  “Isaac…” Confused, he slipped his phone into his scrub trouser pocket and, still off balance both mentally and physically, smiled as he tried to catch his boyfriend’s eye.  “You could have just said my name…” he teased, wondering what Isaac was doing by the door still, thinking that the whole stunt had been to just get him into the office for a few moments of ‘them’ time. _

 

“He locked the door?”  Bernie could see what happened next far too clearly, the scene playing out in her mind in freeze-frame, the fine details being filled in by what she’d just concluded based on what his ribs were telling her.

 

“I thought…”  The tears were coming freely again, making Dom want to inhale big gulps of air when steadier, slower breaths were easier.  “I thought he was being...uh…flirty.”  Clearly, despite her best attempts, she’d let a flicker of her thoughts show in her face, revealed by a twitch of an eyebrow or a tightening on her lips because he glanced away, the shyness that was actually shame returning.  “...he...it could be fun...a kiss just before rounds…”

 

“Impetuous...spontaneous…”  She grinned, memories of her own resurfacing for a split second, interwoven between other memories not so pleasant but just as relevant. “...the risk of being caught…”

 

“Mr Griffin…”  This time he saw her arched eyebrow for what it was and laughed carefully.  “Caught us… not…”  He waved his hand vaguely in front and to the side of his face.  “Ew…” He pushed her gently on the shoulder, ‘joshing’ she remembered they used to call it - fine if it was humorously meant and understood...less fine when underneath it was a genuine grudge or hatred and the ‘joshed’ soldier was having to be examined by the MO…

 

“Did he hit you?”

 

“No…”

  
  


_ “What have you done?”   _

 

_ “What?”  Not following, Dom tried to step back from Isaac, some basic instinct seeing him want to put a bit of space between them while he tried to work out what was going on.  “What are you talking about?”  Trying again, Dom couldn’t understand why he wasn’t able to step back from his boyfriend.  “Isaac?  What’s going on?” _

 

_ “What did you do?” repeated Isaac, his jaw set firm and hard, his eyes blazing but the rest of his face still, too still realised Dom, finally registering that the white ball of heat he was feeling in his arm wasn’t the warm burn of passion ignited by a lover’s touch but the intense fire of pain...he couldn’t move because of Isaac’s iron grip on his forearm. _

 

_ “Do?  What are you talking about?”  Dom tried to rotate his forearm, tried flexing his own arm, tensing muscles strong but tired from surgery, in the hope that the movement might loosen Isaac’s grip.  It didn’t.  “And let go of me!” Even as he spoke he realised how weak he sounded, how feeble he must seem as he pushed against Isaac with his other arm...pushed against gym-worked muscles that had been cute and sexy but were now frightening. _

 

_ “WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HER?” _

 

_ “Who?  What?”  Dom was beginning to panic, the palpable rage from his boyfriend terrifying him as the room started to spin, Isaac’s tense still face starting to blur with Lee’s… _

 

“Lee?”  Bernie hadn’t wanted to interrupt Dom’s recounting, knowing he needed to tell someone, knowing that as horrible as it was to relive it now, here, it would only be worse later if he didn’t.  “And breathe in?” she added, having resumed her careful exam while he’d been talking, able to work out the extent of the bruising based on how he twitched in response to her touch.

 

He breathed in and held it for a few seconds, seconds he counted off in the classic Dom way, by nodding his head from side to side, a smirk appearing when he saw her shaking her head in amusement at his antics…

 

“Before you arrived...wait, no...I think it was when you were on Darwin…” Dom looked puzzled, finding it easier to lose himself in the problem of working out her ‘Holby timeline’ than to continue with his recount of earlier.  “...as a patient I mean…”

 

“February?  Last year?” She saw his wince and made a mental note about another tender spot, this time lower, below his ribs and more central...abdominal bruising… “...Wait, I remember now…” She found herself remembering little bits and pieces, overheard as she moved from bed to physio, went from scan to ward, tiny scraps that now fitted together.  “...Lee, Ric Griffin, you…”  She trailed off, seeing in his eyes that she’d understood correctly, that the two moments were going to now be forever inextricably tangled in his memory...two moments when his life was shattered.

 

“Isaac was insisting I tell him what I’d done, what I’d said…”  Dom looked straight at her, the tears returning hot and wet as he tried to beat the lump forming in his throat that was going to stop the words, force him to be silent once more.  “...what I’d said to you…”

 

“Is that when he threw you against the filing cabinet?”

 

“I didn’t know what he was talking about…”  He hadn’t said anything, not to her or anyone.  He didn’t understand why Isaac hadn’t believed him.  “How’d…”

 

“How did I know about the filing cabinet?” asked Bernie, tackling the easier question first.  On seeing Dom’s little nod, she continued.  “Bruised ribs here…”  She showed Dom where ‘here’ was on herself, gesturing to her right side.  “Possibly cracked a couple, when you landed against the corner I think?”  Again, she saw his little nod, her diagnosis matching what he remembered.  “I think he held you, against…” Bernie noticed the flicker in his eyes that told her she was right but not quite right enough, “...and on, it’s a short cabinet?”  She moved her hand up and down beside her, hovering finally level with the bottom of Dom’s rib cage.  “Three drawer…” she realised, remembering the dull grey cabinets that were an inevitable presence in every office despite their computer systems and databases.  “Explains the bruising here…” she gestured across her front, just where the false ribs, ribs eight to ten were.  “And here…” she put her hand on her stomach just above her navel.  “Drawer handle,” she explained, seeing Dom’s frown as he copied her movements, wincing when he found the spot she’d found.  “How’s your chin?”

 

“Sore…” Dom rubbed it thoughtfully, a conflict of emotions rushing through him - marvelling at her diagnostic skill while shivering at the memory of being trapped, squashed down against that filing cabinet, Isaac pushing him harder and harder into the cold metal.  “He…”  Dom ran completely out of words and was left flailing his arms about as he tried to mime what happened next, suddenly desperate for her to know...to know that Isaac had grabbed his hair and neck and held his head down against the top of the cabinet, as if trying to force his chin through the metal.  And then as suddenly as Isaac was on him, he was gone….the weight lifted from him as Security burst into the office and pulled Isaac back, held him far enough away for Dom to leave...to escape...

 

Wordlessly Bernie rearranged his shirt and jumper, making sure both were pulled down neatly, covering his kidneys and the waistband of his jeans just like she’d done to the kids when they were little.  Buttoning up his coat again so he didn’t get cold, she then turned him, her hands soft and gentle, manoeuvering him with quiet murmurs and gentle nudges taking care to never grip or push him until he was sitting on the steps next to her, their bodies angled towards each other - close but separate, near enough for him to not feel alone but far enough away to not intrude if he wanted space.

 

“He said he loved me…”

 

“He did.”  Bernie knew, even before she looked at him and saw his face, that she’d surprised Dom with her opinion.  “He did love you Dom, in his way.”  She thought for a moment, trying to work out how to explain in a way that Dom would get, knowing what she wanted to say but not sure how to articulate it to a civilian.

 

“You knew…” Dom looked at her, confused and exhausted but desperate for answers,  “...you saw something…”

 

“Yes...”  Young men, impressionable men, making the wrong decisions, following the wrong orders...it was easy for these delicate, fragile boys to find themselves caught in the web of a senior, older soldier, their infatuation making them easily persuadable, amenable to plans and ideas they’d ordinarily object to.  Sometimes she didn’t see  _ it,  _ only the aftermath - the broken bones when a previously sure-footed soldier became clumsy; other times she was an accidental witness whose attention to detail meant her eye caught upon some tiny detail that wasn’t quite right - the too nervous soldier visiting an injured senior and trying to shoulder blame that wasn’t theirs to carry; the patrol team medic resistant to new equipment or protocols unless ‘the gaffer’ or ‘the boss-man’ blessed it despite it already being routine and ‘blessed’ by all those that needed to both medical and military...

 

“Soldiers?”  Dom was grateful for the distraction, the opportunity to think about something that wasn’t his life, wasn’t this mess, this pile of problems that he’d have to sort through but couldn’t stand to look at.  “But they’re tough and strong…”

 

“And vulnerable and human.”  Bernie leaned back, watching him but not crowding him as she started to explain.  “Isaac loves you the way a soldier loves his rifle - it’s in his possession, his and his alone, to care for and to use.  When the rifle works no one notices, and when the soldier fails…”

 

“...the rifle takes the blame?” guessed Dom, starting to understand her example at least, even if his face showed that he didn’t yet believe the parallel applied to him and Isaac.

 

“And if the ‘rifle’ is another soldier...a soldier who has been taught to trust his fellow soldier, to follow orders and instructions?”

 

“The soldier apologises and accepts the blame…” whispered Dom, the tears starting to flow freely again as he started to see the picture she’d painted for him, images being supplied from films and pictures he’d seen, of men in uniform and danger, men he’d always assumed could only be tough and strong and not at all like him.  “What happened?”

 

“Not much…”  Bernie shifted position slightly, trying to find a more comfortable spot on the cold metal stair.  “Mr Hanssen took Isaac to his office, to wait for me to join them after you’d closed Mrs Cardwain.  Excellent work that Doctor,” she nudged his knee lightly with her own, her teasing praise bringing her the reward of his shy smile and little head duck, the odd mix of shy embarrassment and confident pride that she’d associated with Dom from almost the first moment she’d met him.  “Mr Hanssen’s particularly grateful by the way, since you were so quick…I don’t think he’d have coped well if you’d needed a second go…”

 

“Hanssen?  He’s got loads of patience…”  Irritatingly large amounts of it actually, thought Dom, remembering all the times that he’d had to stand in silence waiting for Hanssen to finish making his point.  “Unless you fidget...was Isaac fidgeting?”

 

“Not exactly…”

 

_ “Yes?”  Out of the corner of her eye, Bernie could see both Henrik and the member of HR who had slipped into the room ahead of her tensing, their reactions an involuntary response to Isaac shifting his weight in the chair, presumably intending to lunge for her.   _

 

_ “You…”  Isaac was stuck, suspended in some half state somewhere between contained simmering fury and explosive burning anger - adrenalin had him rising up out of the chair and charging at her, his muscles were coiled tight and tense ready to move but he couldn’t do it - he needed energy from her to overcome his inertia, to pull him over the edge and let rip but there was nothing.  She was just there, leaning against the wall, completely flat.  He was making a fool of himself… losing control...he needed to calm down. _

 

_ “Good decision Mr Mayfield,” praised Bernie who, despite her apparent nonchalance was actually equally alert and ready to react but, unlike Isaac her fury was fueling her control not sapping it: she was a surgeon, used to making snap decisions and not letting adrenalin dictate or control her actions, but she was also a soldier, proven on the field of battles far more bloody against opponents far more powerful and skillful than Isaac.   _

 

_ She wanted him to stay angry, to be seething with fury and struggling with his control so that when they began to unpick his lies he’d lose his grip and let go.  There was a risk to that, a risk that he’d just nearly succumbed to but she’d cope if he rushed at her, whether with words or wild swings.  He wasn’t the first, nor the biggest, nor were his skills primarily lethal and violent.  She wasn’t complacent, quite the opposite in fact, being hyperalert and aware of everything and everyone, including herself.  She was in control of the situation. _

 

_ She was the spider. _

 

_ He was the fly. _

 

_ This was her web. _

 

_ Shifting slightly, she corrected her stance to one that felt more comfortable, her lazy slouch against the wall replaced with an easy, square stance - shoulders back, chin up, arms...only needed to interlock behind her back above her waist to be at textbook ‘stand at ease’ position.  It was the position she’d seen Isaac try to mimic, that she saw him him using as a coping mechanism to reign in his temper, when he needed to cling onto a sense of control when he was in the process of losing it.  It was his ‘tell’...the clue he’d given her without realising it… _

 

_ Watching her, Isaac waited for some hint as to where this was going, some clue as to what she was thinking that he could snatch and twist, work to his advantage.  She couldn’t be unreadable, no one was totally unreadable, not even a prodigal consultant general surgeon….Oh… _

 

_ There it was.  There.  Just then, when she fidgeted.  The way her chin moved...lifted up and then shifted down, settling in one smooth, single movement, coming to rest in precisely the spot she’d wanted, the spot he was always trying to find himself but didn’t always land on first go...that was her tell...that was her clue... _

 

_ He’d underestimated her. _

 

_ She hadn’t been fidgeting. _

 

_ He’d dismissed her, the ‘prodigal consultant general surgeon’ with her slightly different ways of doing things, her preference for trauma surgery on the patients most critical and silent, most likely not to ever know her name or her role in their survival, her propensity for stiffness with the patients that were awake and conscious before she treated them...those were all attributes that had marked her card as far as he was concerned...she had no influence on research funding or fellowships, no academic contacts he could work and claim...she’d been just another surgeon, not even a rival since she showed no interest in his desire to research, to leave his mark on the world… _

 

_ That was ‘Bernie’...but this, this woman stood in front of him, her eyes cutting through him, the set of her jaw and shoulders making him think she could see his plans, his ideas and schemes as clearly as if he’d written them on the walls of this office...this irritatingly calm woman stood before him who barely blinked when he turned to rage at her when others would wilt and run...this was someone different...a General to his Corporal… _

 

_ This wasn’t ‘Bernie’... This was Major Wolfe… _

 

_ “You are here, Mr Mayfield, at my request based on my observations and conclusions…” She saw his momentary confusion before his supercilious mask slipped back into place, the tilt of his head as he turned and looked at her, stood as she was still near the door somehow conferring an arrogance and sense of righteousness that she could clearly see had, and no doubt would again intimidate others into believing it, believing that he was superior and right.  “Observations that I shared with Mr Hanssen…” Bernie looked across at Henrik, pleased to see that he was his more usual calm, controlled self and that he’d managed to restore the order to his desk by moving the pen tray that Isaac had evidently disturbed into a more symmetric and aligned position. _

 

_ “What of your conclusions?”  Isaac leapt in at the first chance she created, needing to get back in control, the sneering condescension hinting that she’d clearly not stood by her conclusions if she kept them to herself.  As intimidations and assertions went, it was one of his weaker moves but right now he was realistic enough to realise that he was nearly done, so nearly out of the ‘game’ that he had to take every chance created.  He had to believe it would work again. _

 

_ “I formed them independently of Ms Wolfe.”  Bernie permitted herself a smile when she saw Isaac’s head flip round at such speed she wanted to rub her own neck - he’d clearly regarded Mr Hanssen as an inconsequential participant in this. _

 

_ “I see.”  Not sure whether to centre himself on Hanssen or her, Isaac was caught in a dilemma - who was the greater threat?  Unable to decide, Isaac resorted to his riskiest strategy that often worked because of its sheer audacity: when an adequate defence was impossible, attack.  “So this is about my research then…” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, trying to assume a position of laid back, casual indifference although really, he would be able to do it far more successfully if he wasn’t in these ridiculous pink scrubs… “I know it’s taking me away from the daily lists, but its on-going success will only continue to bring a certain profile to the Hospital…” _

 

_ “That is a privilege afforded to only the most exceptional of surgeons in this hospital…” observed Henrik, carefully not looking at Ms Wolfe as he knew he would be struggling to resist the urge to share a ‘speaking’ look with her, a look that this arrogant young man would see and try to use. _

 

_ “Indeed.”  There, he could feel it...that change in heat...Isaac had found the crack and forced it open - the red heat of fury was mellowing into the golden warmth of victory: he was going to get what he knew he deserved…. _

 

_ “...of which you are most definitely…” This was it, thought Isaac, he could feel it coming...should he shake hands? Or just nod… yes, a nod would be fine, and as for her…”...not.” _

 

_ “Excuse me?”  That wasn’t part of the plan.  Had he really just said ‘not’? _

 

_ “You, Mr Mayfield, are not one of this hospital’s exceptionally brilliant surgeons.  You are an able surgeon with talents and skills that, if correctly applied in theatre, can improve and even save lives.  However, on reviewing your cases, a worrying and dangerous pattern starts to emerge, one that I will not stand for in this hospital…” _

 

_ “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” _

 

_ “Mrs Cardwain, abdominal scarring from chemical burns when she was a teenager.”  Bernie’s voice was hard and quiet, her words cutting through the tension as sharp as any scalpel and with the same millimetre perfect precision.  “You had no idea about it.” _

 

_ “It wasn’t in the notes…” _

 

_ “Patient’s abdomen is mottled in appearance with localised skin discolouration and reduced sensation due to residual scar tissue from chemical burns when the patient was in her late teens.”  Hanssen looked up from the file, his finger resting in the margin marking his place so he could repeat the text word for word were it necessary.  “Seems fairly clear to me Mr Mayfield and hard to miss in an exam.”  Hanssen cleared his throat.  “You did examine your patient pre-operatively?” _

 

_ “Dr Copeland…” began Isaac, swallowing deeply, not feeling all that comfortable suddenly.  But it was only one case, one error - he’d get his wrist slapped, confess to the misunderstanding with Dom, stupid Dom who would need to be punished for oversteppng boundaries and creating trouble that had to be fixed...by Isaac of course.  This was fine, this wasn’t the end. _

 

_ “Is not the lead surgeon according to the pre-op notes, you are Mr Mayfield.  Did you examine your patient?” _

 

_ “Well it…” _

 

_ Bernie had had enough. _

 

_ “Mr Mayfield, the acceptable answers are ‘yes’ and ‘no’.  Any other sound will be interpreted as ‘no’.  Is that clear?” _

 

“I’d have wet my pants…”

 

“Thanks for that picture…” teased Bernie, pleased to see Dom was able to at least notice some humour in what had been a somewhat surreal meeting up until that point as really, Isaac’s ability to twist and manipulate was so extreme it was almost worthy of admiration, which wasn’t to say it was admirable.

 

“Did he manage?”

 

“To answer given he only had two choices?  Yes...eventually.”  Bernie smirked as she looked at Dom, testing to see how he was really doing.  “Took him three goes mind.”

 

“I’m impressed…”

 

“Oh?”  That wasn’t the reaction she was expecting from Dom.

 

“That you managed to remember that he hadn’t answered the question long enough to ask it three times…”  Dom looked down at his fingers, absently scratching at the skin around his thumb nail, a new awareness enabling him to look back on random moments of his time with Isaac and see, with her help and reassuring presence beside him as he thought about it, how Isaac had always managed to keep refusing to answer any of Dom’s questions until Dom had asked it so many times the meaning of it had changed, enabling Isaac to answer in a way that meant something quite different to Dom’s original intention.  “Did he really only say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

 

“Yes…”  Bernie reached out and put her hand over his, stilling his fingers, stopping him doing memorable damage to his thumb.  “Turns out that Mr Hanssen’s really very good at asking questions that only need yes and no answers…”  She squeezed Dom’s hand in what she hoped he considered to be reassuring and supportive rather than threatening.  “...and apparently I can be quite intimidating when I care to be…”

 

He couldn’t help himself - her expression of innocence was so...overdone that he couldn’t stop his lips twitching into a smile, a smile that became a laugh and a laugh that became giggles, uncontrollable giggles that quickly became uncontrollable crying…

 

Bernie wasn’t a hugger.  She could produce witnesses to that, starting with her children...actually, she probably wouldn’t need any witnesses other than them, but she could produce them: friends, family, exes...any number of people would be able to come forwards and explain all the occasions when anyone else, anyone  _ normal  _ would understand that what the situation required was a hug.  But not her.  No, Bernie Wolfe, whether on civvy street or military base did not hug.  Don’t even think about it or worse, attempt it.  You’ll only hurt yourself when she remains as stiff as a board.  

 

She was hugging him before she’d realised what she was doing, her body twisting so she could lean him against her, reach around him to hold him, carefully being mindful of his ribs, but hold him nevertheless while he cried...cried for exactly what she didn’t know, nor probably did he, not now, not yet.  That would come in time, after many more tears and lots of hugs from people he trusted...like Zosia...like her…

 

Eventually, the tears slowed and the sniffing just about stopped, Dom pulled back and looked at her, eyes puffy and swollen but a little bit clearer and calmer than when he’d first come up to the roof.

 

“I don’t hate you…”  he began, remembering her first words to him.  “I will say thank you, one day…”  He sniffed a bit, more in habit than actual need, biting his lip hard to stop the tears from starting again, just grateful that he couldn’t see any pity in her face, only compassion and support.  “...but it’s going to take a while…”

 

“I understand.”  His words gave her hope, hope that he’d finished it with Isaac but she didn’t like to ask.  It wasn’t her business, not really.  She was a surgeon, a consultant in a teaching hospital, tasked in part with bringing on the surgeons of the future, the next generation of life changers and savers, tasked with contributing to Dom’s career, charged therefore with protecting Dom’s talent and skills even when he might not know he needed her protection.  That gave her some entitlement to ask questions, to watch, to act...but only on his surgical life.  Anything else was his business, only hers if he wanted to share it.

 

“It’s over, with Isaac…”

 

“Does he know?”

 

“I told him.”  Dom sniffed again, only this time he also smirked, presumably seeing the funny side to something.  “Amazing how brave you can be when there’s two big blokes from security holding onto him…”  Bernie smiled, but out of reflex - she wasn’t seeing the humour.  “That’s exactly what he would say…”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Right before telling me he loved me and that I was ‘silly Dom’...”  Another sniff.  “Anyway, I told him, then, that it was over - that I wasn’t going to be with anyone who hurt me, physically I mean…”

 

“Did he hear you?”

 

“I think so…”  Dom looked out across the Holby skyline, the night much darker and colder than when he’d first come up here.  “I live with him, moved into his flat…”  He looked back at her, knowing that if the hospital grapevine was even half right she, of all people, would understand.  “I can’t go back there…”

 

“Then don’t.”  She’d walked away from a marriage of 25 years, a house her family had grown up in, walked away with two boxes of books and her army gear.  

 

“What do I do?”  

 

“Pass me my briefcase?”  She’d asked before she’d remembered his ribs.  “No, don’t!” She’d sounded sharper, in her haste, than she’d intended, unsurprised when she saw his wounded look.  “Your ribs Dom, you’ll twist and try to lift and…” She let him fill in the mental ‘ouch’ while she stood up and walked around him to pick up her briefcase.

 

“This should help…” She opened up the briefcase and pulled out a thin plastic bag, like you got from the supermarket before everyone was using their own shopping bags with virtuous statements about ‘keeping calm’ and so forth.  “...Improvised survival kit, uh…” she thrust it out with stiff arms and placed it carefully in his lap, mindful of his ribs.  “Gift wrap’s not my strong suit.”

 

Intrigued, Dom opened the bag carefully, grinning genuinely when he saw what was inside.  “Is that tequilla?”

 

“It was that or vodka, but you need a lot of glasses and a decent fireplace to get properly smashed on vodka.”  She rubbed her neck as she waited for him to find the next items…

 

“Chocolate...really good chocolate…” He pulled out a large handful of several different flavours of the very posh chocolate bars he occasionally treated himself to.

 

“That’s the one you like?”  She’d remembered the brightly coloured wrappers from her time on Keller, silently wondering when the world had got so complicated that even chocolate came with added seasonings.  Who even thought to put chilli in chocolate let alone eat it?

 

“You’re a marvel, Ms Wolfe…”  He put the chocolate back in the bag, nearly missing the last item.  “I don’t smoke…”

 

“Those might be for me if the next bit doesn’t quite go to plan…” She sounded like she was teasing but, for the first time all day, Dom realised she looked nervous.

 

“I’m more of a lover than a fighter...and, no disrespect, but you’re really not my type…”

 

“Funny boy.  Here…” Awkwardly, Bernie held out a piece of paper, folded around a key.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“Where you’re sleeping, for the next fortnight at least.”  She saw his shoulders slump, the final weight lifted from them and pressed on before he could regroup and find enough energy to start to protest.  “My place.”

 

“Ms Wolfe… I can’t…”

 

“You can and you will.  It’s not such a noble sacrifice on my part - if you’d read this afternoon’s circular you’d know I’m on holiday from now for three weeks, so think of it as house sitting.  You only have to share tonight, and I’m taking the floor, no arguments.  For one thing, I’m leaving at 6 in the morning and if you’re not going to have those ribs x-rayed tonight, you’re definitely not sleeping on the floor.”

 

“I…”  Speechless, Dom looked back down at what he’d been give, the simple door key on its ring a ridiculously small token for everything she’d done for him.  He only noticed the tears falling when one landed on the paper, blurring the ink, drawing his attention to it.  “...Uh, this…” he looked at the paper, seeing a name, phone number and time on it, thinking she’d given it to him in error.

 

“Is for you.”  Bernie barked in laughter when she saw his face.  “No, it’s not a blind date Dom…”  She sobered, remembering briefly how she’d come to know him, why she’d rung him last night and asked his permission to pass on his number.  “Luc’s..a good man...he’s been in your position and will answer the phone if you ring...or help you drink the tequila...get your stuff back...whatever really.”  Bernie saw that Dom wasn’t really getting what she was saying, so pulled out her phone and flicked through the photos until she found the one that Luc had sent her, precisely for this moment.  Holding out the phone for Dom to look at, she explained.  “I knew him as Corporal Gansmuir, highly trained very lethal decorated soldier...who nearly had his leg blown off because he was where he wasn’t supposed to be...except he was precisely where his orders had sent him, orders he’d not believed but followed anyway because his confidence and judgment, which had served him so well through his training and earned him well deserved commendations for his bravery had been torn to shreds by someone whose first words to Luc when he came round from the anaesthetic were to threaten him…”

 

“They were lovers?”  Dom looked at the man in the picture with a new respect.

 

“Regulations would have required him to answer the question if I asked…” Bernie smiled sadly, remembering those days when she’d turn a blind eye to a fellow soldier wanting a moment with her patient, remembering some of her colleagues who hadn’t.  “I made a point of not asking.”  She cleared her throat.  “Anyway, he’s local….”  she grinned conspiratorially as she reached down for her briefcase again, feeling the cold of the night now and wanting to get them both indoors.  “...and taller than Hanssen!”

 

“Ms Wolfe, I don’t know what to say…”  Carefully, Dom stood up and tried to reach for his backpack, only for her to pick it up and move it out of his reach.

 

“Say you’ll let Raf check your ribs out tomorrow and that you like curry.”

 

“I promise to let Raf check my ribs tomorrow and yes, I like curry...”

 

“But?”

 

“But I prefer Chinese or Pizza…”

 

“Good to know, then we’re stopping to pick up Chinese on the way home.”  She looked at him critically.  “I’ve got some clothes that will work as pyjamas…”  She saw his crumpled shirt tails, peaking out from the bottom of his jumper.  “...and an ironing board.”

 

“Funny…” Dom risked sticking his tongue out at her before sobering.  “...thank you…”

 

She paused, her briefcase hanging part open from her hand, forgotten.

 

“You’re allowed time Dom…”

 

“I know.”

 

“Come on…” Smiling, she closed her briefcase and gestured for him to precede her off the roof, not relinquishing her hold on his backpack.

 

In time, knew Bernie, Dom’s open wounds would heal and, given enough time and the right support, the deeper hurts would mend as well...but until then, well...she’d still be around...the spider who caught other spiders...the spider who considered flies to be her friends…

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading... hope you enjoyed it.


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